


hold the mic (to this pillar of salt)

by throats



Series: mics are for singing not swinging [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Canon Disabled Character, Clint Barton is a dog, F/F, F/M, Multi, Past Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Past Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson - Freeform, Poly Jessica Jones, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 92,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/throats/pseuds/throats
Summary: “I have plenty of friends,” he snaps back. He's frowning a little. Claire doesn't need to do this - he doesn't need any more friends. He has Foggy. He has Claire. And Clint. That's enough.“You have two, Matt.”“Three,” he corrects, “I have Clint.”“Clint is a dog.”-Or, the one where The Defenders is a band. Jessica and Luke scheme to shame Danny into being a better person! Matt and Claire are bad at feelings! Jessica and Matt have a support group for people who are bad at life! Foggy Nelson deserves some kind of award!





	1. i mean this, i'm okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE ADDED ON 11/10/2017: this fic was largely inspired by brand new. i wrote [a note on my tumblr](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/private/167354732050/tumblr_oz8687mUYP1seziba) about the current status of this fic after jesse lacey was outed as someone who sexually abused minors. please read it before going forward.
> 
> there's a personal rule in my life that everything must have a band au. this is it. beta'd by [moonheist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist); thanks to [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) for letting me yell about this 24/7. 
> 
> content warnings for minor ableism. (additionally, if I fuck anything up, let me know.)

His mother played piano, he thinks. Maybe. Matt remembers the sound of it, afternoons at the parish, down the street from the apartment they used to live in on West 56th street. He used to play in the pews, opening up the big, big books of psalms and following the notes with his fingers. They were the wrong ones, he had no idea what his mother was playing on the parish piano, but it didn’t matter.

Matt remembers music filtering through the apartment on West 56th street, bright and airy. Barefeet on the linoleum, bright pink toenails, as she danced. She loved the sound of music. All of his early memories are filled with it.

The music stopped when she left; but his father still walked him to the church on West 56th street every week for mass. He doesn’t remember when he started playing himself; maybe six, or seven. The lessons gave him a place to be while Battlin’ Jack worked at the docks.

In school, they had music too. He liked it a lot. He liked how he could read the sheet music and hear the sound in his head before he was even playing.

Then the lights went out and for a while, the sound stopped too.

 

* * *

 

His dad made him play. Well, that’s not the entire truth, but originally Matt said no, when Father Patrick asked him to play. Because it had felt like pity. Then his dad had chewed him out when he got home from work on the docks, late, for saying no to the Father.

_Matty, when God asks you to do something, you do it._ He’d been bitter; ten and a half and a year without seeing his dad’s face. He told his dad that Father Patrick wasn’t _God,_ that wasn’t how God worked.

_Yes he is, Matty._ Jack Murdock used the voice he only used when he was speaking the most serious of words. It’s the same voice that told him it was going to be alright. Or to take a shot of whiskey because he didn’t want his hands to shake when Matt stitched up the cut above his eye. _Father Patrick has the Holy Spirit in him; he helps us talk to God. And so if He’s asked you to play that damn piano, you’re playing the damn piano, alright?_

Matt can still make the walk home – to the new apartment, the one up to it in his mind. Third building from the corner store. Six steps up the stoop. Railing stronger on the left side than the right. Keys into the first hole, then the second. Turn them left ( _left and you’re in, Matty_ ). Door on the right, seven steps in from the main entrance. Two key holes.

His dad made him play because it was better than the alternative: Matt doing nothing, Matt alone in their new apartment while he worked or trained. And because it was part of Jack Murdock’s ‘Anything You Could Do Before You Can Do Now’ initiative. And, for the most part, it worked.

Then Jack Murdock died, bloodied in the street. Matt couldn’t even identify him, based on the state of his face. It’d taken dental records. And Stick - never dad, never a name other than Stick - didn't like music. 

Matt didn't play music again for a long time.

 

* * *

 

It happened because his roommate - Foggy, with the long hair and the bright, rich laugh, who smelled like hemp soap, whose mother wanted him to be a butcher - wanted to get laid.

It was 2008. Being in a band and having shaggy hair was cool. And they went to Columbia. All the girls were obsessed with the boys from SVA, with skinny jeans and degrees in cartooning. They all listened to Fueled By Ramen and had internships at Alt Press. Foggy needed an edge. The edge, he'd decided, would be an acoustic guitar he bought from Josie at the bar for twenty-four dollars and seventy-six cents, everything Foggy had on him at the time.

And, Christ, it sounded awful. Steely and sharp and so off key it created an entirely new scale and key. Matt had finals. He was going to die if he couldn't study in his own dorm - he hated carting all of his Braille readers and recorders to the library. And Foggy certainly couldn't play on the quad, or else he'd have the very opposite of an edge.

“Foggy,” Matt said, exhausted, exasperated. He turned from his seat at the desk they'd shoved under the sole window. “Foggy. Is that thing even tuned?”

“How should I know? I've never played an instrument in my life,” Foggy said, sounding just as exhausted, exasperated. He groaned. It was followed by a hollow rattle, the ping of a few strings, as Foggy set the guitar down. “I played baseball as a kid.”

Matt didn't think baseball and musical skill were mutually exclusive talents but he didn't mention it. Instead, he sighed, extending his arm. “Here,” he said. “I played piano, as a kid. Maybe I can I figure it out.”

He didn’t have to see to understand the expression Foggy made in reply. He could hear it in the inhale of Foggy’s breath – like a quiet, “Erm?”

“Pitch’s pitch Foggy,” Matt said, tilting his head a little. He made a grabbing motion with his hand, gesturing out for the guitar. “I don’t think a guitar’s as hard as tuning a piano. And besides,” he added, with a smile in the direction of Foggy’s bed, “I could use a break from these logic sets.”

In the end, it took the better part of two hours and several trial and error Google searches. But he did it. It’s nice, sliding his fingers over the strings, plucking out sounds and notes from the air. It’s different than the piano – it’s all strings, no keys acting as middleman.

Two weeks later, Foggy starts dating a girl from his Punjabi class and sells Matt the guitar for six dollars, a bottle of Jameson, and a copy of Matt’s logic sets.

 

* * *

 

Jessica doesn’t actually know what the fuck the kid at the bar is doing, talking to Claire. He’s very animated, gesticulating wildly. The girl next to him has her head in her hands. She looks like she wants to sink into the barstool she’s in and then down through the floor. Jessica’s been there.

Claire, however, looks two inches past mildly annoyed. It’s in the arch of her eyebrow, making the lines of her brow more furrowed. Her mouth sets into a thin line.

“You think she’s good?” Jessica asks Luke, a solid and warm mass next to her. It’s January. Even inside the bar – _The Chaste,_ because apparently the owner has a hilarious sense of humor – it’s chilly. She lowers her whiskey (fourth of the night).

“Claire?” Luke asks, low, laughing. “She’s alright. You know she keeps a bat under the bar.”

Jessica pouts. She’s a little rowdy, with the whiskey running hot through her. She could use a good fight to settle the heat in her limbs. Though, she thinks as she spares a glance to Luke, there are other ways to deal with the frantic energy in her bones.

When she looks back to Claire, she’s got her hands up in defeat and she’s nodding towards… Jessica and Luke’s table.

Oh no, no, no, no.

The kid makes eye contact and he’s – oh, fuck – grinning when he starts to walk towards them. Jessica stiffens and tightens her grip on her glass. She’ll need another round soon. And fast, considering how the kid’s booking it across the bar towards them.

“Hi,” he says, too goddamn cheery, as he pulls out the chair at the end of their table. Jessica and Luke watch him from their positions against the wall. He sits on the chair backwards. “I’m Danny. I live in your building.”

Jessica knows her neighbors because they hate her. (Except for Malcolm, who has very strange ideas about privacy.) So he must be talking about Luke’s place. Which is weird. Really weird.

“O-okay,” Jessica says, incredulous. She gives the kid her best _what the fuck_ face. Luke’s doing a good glower next to her.

“I – “ the kid opens and closes his mouth. “You both play really well. I’ve been hearing it for weeks. I’m in the loft above yours.”

Jessica opens her mouth to snap. Luke puts his hand on her knee – real subtle, she’ll get him for that later – and leans forward. “Thanks,” he says, low, steady. “Though you could have just left a note.”

Danny flashes a smile that Jessica’s pretty sure he thinks is cute. He’s familiar, for some reason. A weird thought nags on the back of her head. She focuses on that, pulls thread, and lets Luke take over the conversation.

“I have a band,” the kid says. He's wearing a weird expression - it's far too serious for him trying to hype his band. “And I’m looking for people like you, to be in it.”

Oh, Christ shitting fuck. Jessica snaps back into the conversation. “People like _us_?”

Danny gives her a bewildered, startled look. “Musicians!” he backpedals. He looks a little overwhelmed. Jessica wants to take a drink but honestly? She's too fucking stunned. “Talented musicians.”

“Oh you've gotta be kidding me,” she says, rolling her eyes. She gives Danny another quick study. Scraggly beard; white; mid-twenties; curly mop of hair that can only be described as artfully disheveled; sweater worn in too oddly placed spots to be anything other than _pre-distressed_. “How many people are in your band?”

Danny’s face falls, a little. “Uh, just me.”

Jessica laughs.

 

* * *

 

Here's how it happens. Danny tells Luke he could use a drummer like him. Luke chuckles, low and rumbling and makes eye contact with Jessica. She smirks back around her whiskey (number five, delicious and warm).

They agree that Danny can swing by, next time Luke and Jessica play.

 

* * *

 

“Claire, god, you should have seen his _face,_ ” Jessica says, cackling as Claire pours her another whiskey. Luke is beside her, nursing a beer. Trish is on her other side, her hand warm on the small of Jessica’s back. She's drinking a gin and tonic. She smells like jasmine.

Behind the bar, Claire laughs. “Please tell me you didn't beat him up too bad,” she slides the whiskey over to Jess. She tips it towards Claire before she takes a sip. “I actually like his girlfriend. She's sweet.”

Luke chuckles and shakes his head. “There was no violent force,” he says, the corners of his mouth quirking up. Jess loves it when he allows himself to be a smart ass. She hooks her ankle around his. “Only shame when he realized I don't play drums.”

“‘Oh, oh, I didn't realize I'm so sorry - he - I - you just - _hit so hard_ ’, Jessica mocks, dropping her voice into a ridiculous parody of Danny’s intelligible accent. “Christ.” She takes a long drink from her whiskey. “He's an idiot.”

“So I'll take it Danny's band isn't happening,” Claire says, wiping down the bar. It's a Tuesday night in December. It's pretty empty, save for the old drunk in the corner. Jessica’s kindred spirit. She reminds herself to send him a drink.

Trish laughs. “Oh no,” she says, shaking her head.

Jessica flashes her most effective shit-eating grin. “We joined. We're going to shame him into quitting music forever.”

Luke rolls his eyes. “We're going to help him figure his stuff out, and then leave once he's got a good foundation.”

“We’re going to shame him into quitting music forever,” Jessica repeats, nodding.

Claire sighs, leaning back against the bar. “Well, so long as you have a plan.” There's a pause, pregnant enough that Jess knows Claire is considering something, behind those dark eyes. She watches as Claire reaches for a glass, begins wiping it out with her rag. “You guys gonna need a guitarist?”

 

* * *

 

Matt likes his Thursday afternoons at the food pantry. They're usually quiet. Sundays after mass are busier, usually, which is fine. They have a big after mass brunch that most folks turn up for, and they have to process the donations from mass itself. It's good. But Thursdays are better.

Thursday it's just him and Claire, half shooting the shit and half doing actual work, like making up the baskets that Claire’ll deliver on her way home to different parishioners, who can't get out to the church on West 36th street. Sometimes Father Diego will come by, ask Matt how his law school applications are going, ask Claire for any good stories from the ambulances.

Matt can tell, however, that today Claire has something on her mind. He's drinking stale coffee, sitting at the card table they have set up. Claire’s too quiet, the knife falls on the cutting board heavier than it usually does as she cuts up a tomato. She's making a large batch of Spanish rice for the Meals on Wheels deliveries tomorrow.

“What's going on?” he asks before he can think better of it. “You sound upset.”

“Oh,” Claire says, sighing softly. “It's - I'm not upset.” She sets the knife down. Matt can hear her shifting, the creak of the counter as she leans against it. “Just trying to figure out how to ask you something.”

Matt frowns. That doesn't sound particularly good. He forces himself to turn his head towards her, so she can see the frown full on. (Sometimes he forgets; that he's not _looking_ at people when he talks to them.) “You could just ask me,” he says, careful. Maybe a little curious.

“I - it's not really a question,” Claire replies. “Some of my friends from the bar are starting a band. They need a guitarist. I think you should audition.”

His frown deepens, just for a moment before he chokes out a laugh. Something twists around his chest at the word _band,_ constrictive. He touches the tattoo at his wrist superstitiously. A snake eating its own tail. “You know I'm blind, right? I don't think that's very conducive to being in a band.”

“That hasn't stopped you before.” Matt doesn't need to see to know she's raising an eyebrow at him, incredulous. She knows he's lying through his teeth. Stupid tattoo. It's because she'd asked about it. He hadn't been able to keep the story from tumbling out of his lips.

There are footsteps as she pushes off the counter. The scrape of the legs of a chair against the floor as she sits down across from him. “I think it could be good for you,” she says, quieter. “Get you out some.”

“I get out plenty,” Matt returns, defensive. “I'm here, right?”

Claire’s sigh is very, very loud. “Matt, you're twenty-seven and volunteering at a church food pantry.”

“So are you,” he mutters.

“Well I'm thirty, we’re allowed.” It's gentle, an easy tease at her own expense. She smells like antibacterial lotion. It's strong. She must have just gotten off a shift. “Your life ends when you turn thirty. You should do something fun with your last years.”

That draws a laugh out of him. “I already did the band thing,” he says, finally. “It didn't work out so well.” That's the understatement of a lifetime.

“Well this time the people are different,” Claire says, firm. “I trust them, for one.” She touches the back of Matt’s hand, reassuring. Her fingers are a little dry, it must be work. He makes a note to get a bottle of lotion, to put next to the sink here. It'd probably be weird if he just gave her some. But he could be sneaky about it.

“Secondly, I'm worried about you,” this Claire says quieter. Matt winces. “You could use some more friends, Matt.”

“I have plenty of friends,” he snaps back. He's frowning a little. Claire doesn't need to do this - he doesn't _need_ any more friends. He has Foggy. He has Claire. And Clint. That's enough.

“You have two, Matt.”

“Three,” he corrects, “I have Clint.”

“Clint is a dog.”

As if on cue, he whines under the table at Matt’s feet. He reaches down and scratches behind his ears. “Clint has feelings too, Claire,” Matt replies. It's a bad attempt at humor.

She sighs again. “C’mon, don't tell me you don't miss playing.” Her foot nudges his, reassuring. “I see that wistful look you get at camp.” Matt can hear the smile in her voice; it makes something warm resonate in his chest, at odds with the panic that curls in his throat at the idea of playing guitar in a band again.

But - the problem is that she’s right. St. George’s does a summer program for neighborhood kids in the summer; it’s where Matt met Claire. He’d needed something to do, the summer after he graduated college, while waiting for his internship to start in the fall. She’d cornered him after mass one day - _we need a music teacher for the summer program. Our old one just moved to Florida. I know you play piano for the latin mass. You’d be doing me a huge favor._

She’d sounded nice; pushy, maybe, but nice. And Matt didn’t really have anything else going on. And she didn’t bring up his blindness. It didn’t matter to her.

His blindness didn’t really matter to the kids, either. What mattered was the no one wanted to learn _piano_. They wanted to learn something cool. Like the guitar.

Matt’s not sure the kids really learn how to play, but he can at least get them through the scales on Foggy’s old acoustic with the Fueled by Ramen sticker on the back. But, Claire’s right. It's nice to have an excuse to play. Even if it's not exactly the same as running through his own music with -

It doesn't matter. He's not joining another band. It's just not happening.

“Claire,” he cautions. “I'm fine, really.” Matt smiles for emphasis. He's really fine. He doesn't need more friends and he doesn't need a band. He can play in his loft just fine. Maybe even for Foggy, if they're drunk enough and he asks nicely.

“Uh-huh,” Claire says. She sounds like she thinks he's lying. He's not, which stings - maybe a little. “Well. I emailed you the Facebook event for tryouts. They're at the bar. Maybe you'll change your mind.” He can hear the way the corners of her mouth turn up. It shouldn't make him feel warm, that she wants for him so badly to do this, but it does. Matt's not sure what to do with that.

Drink about it, probably.

 

* * *

 

Danny Rand loves dogs - that's the first thing Matt learns about The Defenders. He makes a beeline for Clint at Matt’s side. Clint, like all good dogs, is thrilled at this discovery and promptly rolls over for belly rubs when Matt wanders into the bar on a sunny Tuesday afternoon.

Luke Cage shakes his hand. His grip is stronger than his dad’s was. It's impressive honestly. “Claire mentioned you might stop by,” he says by way of hello.

Matt feels his neck flush. He rubs at the heated skin. “Uh, yeah,” he manages. “She's good at forcing me to do things.”

Luke’s chuckle is warm, friendly. Matt is surprised by it. He's taller than Matt is, he thinks, from the way he'd shaken Matt’s hand, by the way his breath hits Matt’s cheeks. “That's Claire,” he agrees. “She's a good friend.”

Matt nods. “Yeah,” he breathes, something curling in his stomach like nerves. But they're nothing compared to the frantic energy in his hands. He adjusts his grip on his cane, fiddling with the loop of leather at the end. He hasn't played in front of _people_ in years.

“Nice glasses,” a dry, gravelly feminine voice says from behind Luke. “Fashion choice?”

Matt barks a laugh, just as Luke says, “He’s blind, Jess.”

“Oh, fuck.” She sounds surprised, a little guilty.

“I -” Matt opens his mouth to speak.

“Wait, you're blind?” Danny Rand says, incredulous.

“Danny, you're literally playing with his dog,” Luke says, barely a fraction of annoyance leaking into his smooth, low voice.

“Oh, uh, shit - I'm sorry, I didn't -”

“It's okay,” Matt says, loud. Forceful. Christ, he hates this bit. This is why he didn't want to come. This was a goddamn stupid choice. Maybe one of the dumbest he's made in a while. But now he's here and he's got to finish this because these are Claire’s _friends_ he can't just leave. He'll have to make it through this and then be utterly unsurprised when they don't call him back. It'll be fine.

He can feel three sets of eyes on him. Four, counting Clint. “Really,” he says, and laughs, cracked with a hairline fracture of bitterness. “It's okay.” He pauses, but when no one else speaks, he clears his throat. “Uh, I can just - where should I… uh -”

“Table on your right,” Jessica says, completely even and level-toned as though the last five minutes haven't just happened. Which is nice.

Matt taps out with his cane, free hand questing for the back of a chair. When he finds it, he finds the table. He leans his cane against the chair and swings the guitar case off his back; sets it on the table and opens it up.

“There's an amp set up on the stage,” Jessica continues. “You know Claire, so you've been here before?”

Matt nods. “Yeah, a few times,” he answers, pulling his guitar over his body. He adjusts the strap, just for something to do with his hands before he finishes replying. The nylon is starting to fray. He should probably get it replaced. “I can get up there.”

Clint, who has never been trained a day in his life, bumps the back of Matt’s knee helpfully. It takes him a minute but as he climbs up onto the raised platform - barely high enough off the floor to call it stage - Jessica asks if he'll need help plugging into the amp.

“I'm alright,” Matt says, shaking his head. He taps out and finds the amp.

Danny’s whisper is low, but Matt’s ears are very good. “Are you sure about -” There's a thump. “Ow.”

“Don't,” Luke’s low timbre replies.

“Uhm,” Danny says. Jessica is drumming her fingers on a table. “Whenever you're ready?”

Matt takes a deep breath, sends a quick prayer to St. Jude ( _I know I'm a lost cause, just get me out of this in one piece? Please?_ ) and does a quick slide through a scale, just to settle his nerves.

And then he closes his eyes and runs through a song that's not packed with too many memories. He doesn't sing. Just plays. It's easy to find the old notes, to remember where they connect with others, to slip into another song. It's like boxing. Weave, weave, weave. Land a hit. Land another.

Matt slips into a cover, just something easy. He's never auditioned for a band. He doesn't know the etiquette. He's blind and exposed in too many ways. But the song is familiar enough that someone begins to drum along on a table, soft, quiet.

He laughs when he starts to hear Danny’s voice catching on the chorus. It's just enough encouragement to make Matt feel looser, warm. He's okay.

When he stops playing, cutting the last note just as rough as it should be, Danny laughs. “Holy shit, I haven't heard that song in years! _Three Cheers_ was my shit in middle school.” Matt tries not to wince. He’d been in high school when that album came out. Foggy burned it for him off Limewire, because Stick would have never let Matt have it…

Matt tries to force those memories out just as Danny says, “How did you learn to play like that?”

“I'm blind, not deaf,” Matt returns. It's a little short. He feels bad as soon as he says it.

Except Jessica laughs, a bright cackle. “God, kid, you gotta shut up. Let the grown ups handle this.” There's a thud - maybe a chair settling. Or boots on the floor.

“Well, Murdock, you were definitely the best we've heard all day,” Jessica says. She’s got a hard edge to her voice, even when she sounds mildly pleased. Matt likes it. “You got a phone number?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, Matt auditions with a cover of "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)". ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. turn tin to gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has everything: girls loving girls! trish has a music podcast called alt-trish! foggy nelson is confused by matt's entire life! danny rand loves vine!
> 
> content warnings for minor ableism. (additionally, if I fuck anything up, let me know.)

“So he’s really _blind_?” Trish asks, rolling over in the bed next to Jessica. Her foot trails along Jessica’s bare calf. Trish’s nose moves against her shoulder. Jessica can smell her shampoo, rosy and warm, like summer afternoons when they were kids; hiding from Trish’s mom.

“Yeah,” she answers, shrugging a little – not too hard to dislodge Trish, who’s sliding an arm around Jessica’s waist. “Seems like it – he has a dog and everything.”

“That’s incredible,” Trish breathes. She has a familiar glint in her eye. “What a –”

“Story,” Jessica finishes. Her mouth thins into a line. “He’s just a dude. Don’t even think about it. First of all, we’ve only had like, two, practices and I don’t want your whole _Almost Famous_ thing scaring him off.”

She loves her girlfriend, she really does. Trish might be the only person Jessica _truly_ loves. Wholly, completely, burn-down-a-building kind of love. And she’s never _not_ loved Trish Walker. It’s like loving the sun or a breeze on a hot day; you can’t help it.

But sometimes, Trish’s desperate need to turn everything into an _investigation_ , into a _story_ , makes Jessica want to scream. And she doesn’t know Matt too well – again, two practices, and he’s pretty hedgy when Danny asks him about his life (which is fair, because Danny is fucking annoying) – but she’s not about to subject Matt to Trish trying to turn him into an inspirational story for her podcast.

Trish sighs. She’s got that pout to her mouth – the one where she knows that Jess is right. It’s grumpier than her real pout. “Alright, alright,” she sighs, admitting defeat. Her lips brush against Jessica’s skin, a gentle kiss; an apology in the only language Jess will accept from Trish.

Her girlfriend shifts on the bed, sitting up then. She runs a hand through her blond waves. They’re tossed, maybe a little knotted in the back. Jess likes her best like this: fucked out, raw, just _Trish_. Not Patsy; not Trish Walker of _Alt-Trish_. Just Jessica’s Trish.

She smiles down at Jessica. Her lips are still bright pink, because apparently her lipstick is indestructible. “I still want to _meet_ him. It’s weird not knowing him. Even Danny shows up at the bar.”

“That’s because Danny is stalking me,” Jessica returns, rolling her eyes. Danny’s taken to following her and Luke around like a lost puppy. It’s horrible. Jessica hates children. Curse Luke and his whole _do unto others_ my-daddy-was-a-preacher crap.

“Besides, I’m sure Matt’s got like, a life, and shit,” she adds when Trish returns Jessica’s eyeroll in kind. She shrugs when Trish gives her an imploring look. “Listen! Claire says he’s pretty set in his ways.”

Which that’s been weird, Claire having this secret best friend who is blind and plays guitar better than anyone Jess’s heard in… well, honestly, ever. And she suffered through years of Trish’s Disney-produced singles. And then later, bands during her (brief) stint in college. (Before she’d dropped out. Gotten a the first job she didn’t need a degree for; assisting at P.I. firm.) How does someone not _mention_ that kind of thing?

He’s not bad on the eyes, either. If you dig the whole – native Hell’s Kitchen Irish, kind of nerdy thing.

But Trish gives Jess a pout – her real one, the one where the bow of her bottom lip juts out and her eyes go so, _so_ blue. Jess sighs. “Fine, okay, okay – I’ll try, alright?” She raises her hands in defeat. “But if my world-renowned hospitality doesn’t work, go make the big sad blue eyes at Claire, okay?”

 

* * *

 

“C’mon, Foggy,” Matt says, letting his elbow press against Foggy’s side as they walk up from the 50th Street station. He can smell the crispness in the air, like it’s going to snow. It’s a relief after the oppressive, oily scent of the subway that burns the back of his throat. “It’s just one night, what’s it going to hurt, to try a new bar? We can see Claire.”

“Oh, so you can go abandon me to get laid?” Foggy says, laughing and shaking his head. Matt can feel his hair, tickling his shoulder as his friend shakes his head. “No thank you. And besides, we drink for _free_ at Josie’s.”

The wind chafes at Matt’s face. He wishes he’d worn a scarf. “We _don’t_ drink for free at Josie’s,” Matt corrects, laughing. “I pay your tab.” It’s not entirely true, sometimes Foggy’ll grab the tab, but usually that’s not the case. It’s alright though, Foggy usually buys lunch, so. All’s fair.  

“And besides,” Matt adds, feeling the back of his neck heat. “Claire and I aren’t dating. We’ve never even kissed.”

Foggy groans. “You _know_ I don’t believe you, right?”

“About the tab? I can show you my bank statement.”

“God, you’re so _bad_ at lying to me,” Foggy says. Matt can hear the grin in his voice. They’re definitely going to The Chaste tonight. (Which is both nerve-wracking and exciting. Matt hasn’t told Foggy he’s playing again. Not yet.) “But fine, fine – the defense rests. I’ll take the bribe of you paying my bar tab tonight.”

Matt scoffs. “I never offered –”

“That’s why you’re my best friend!”

He rolls his eyes. Foggy kisses his cheek, breath warm on Matt’s cold face. It’s February and Matt’s so beyond ready for winter to be over in the city. He hates it. He dislikes the cold, it cracks his skin and dries his throat.

Inside the bar, it’s just barely ten degrees warmer, but as Foggy leads Matt in towards the bar, the crowd begins to warm him up enough for him to shed his gloves, tucking them inside his coat pocket. It’s crowded, for a Friday night. Matt can tell by the din, the way voices weave over and under each other, in the sound of glasses hitting sticky table tops. The way someone sways into his shoulder. There’s music playing too, familiar, but just barely indiscernible over the volume of the bar.

“Hey there St. Matthew,” Claire says, familiar, bright, warm, “you come down to slum it with us sinners tonight?” Matt laughs at the tease as he leans up against the bar, setting his fingers on the smooth wood. “Hey Foggy, good to see you.”

“Hel _lo_ Claire,” Foggy says and Matt and hear the smile in his words. He loves Foggy’s smile. It’s so wide, it swallows his whole face. The one time he’d managed to convince Foggy to let him map his face with his hands, he’d kept bursting into laughter. Matt has traced the lines in his face with his fingers. “How’s tricks?”

“Well, this morning I had to ride with someone who’d gotten a cock ring stuck on his dick, so probably worse than yours,” Matt can hear the smile in her words even as she complains. Her voice weaves in and out of proximity, mixed with the sound of the soda fountain, the ice bucket, the swish of alcohol in a shot glass. Soft sounds as she sets down drinks ready to go out.

“Oof,” Foggy says, sympathetic. “Definitely beats my ‘this shithead landlord is totally going to get off on treating his tenants like shit’ story from L and Z.”

“That it does,” Claire says. There’s a soft thud on the bar and Claire’s familiar touch on the back of his hand. “Here’s your pretentious beer.”

Matt flashes her a smile; surprised, warmed. “Oh – thanks, Claire.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, warm and familiar. He doesn’t remember when she’d found out exactly what his drinking habits were; but the fact that someone knows him as well as that makes a slow heat curl around his spine. “Foggy?”

“Whatever’s cheap and won’t kill me,” he says happily.

After two beers, Matt feels warm and loose enough to unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt, tugging loose his tie before he does. Foggy’s trading horror stories with Claire and Matt feels – comfortable, good, this is what friendship feels like; this is good.

“Hey Murdock,” Jessica Jones says, forcefully bright as she folds into the seat beside him. She smells like whiskey and something floral.

Matt doesn’t have to see to know that Foggy’s head whips around at the sound of his name. “Matt?” he asks, half-curious and half defensive.

Well, at least it’ll be over, now. Matt nods, shifting so that Jessica and Foggy can make eye contact. He’s not entirely sure how that goes. From everything Matt understands about Jessica in the month or so he’s known her, she’s a force of nature and ten pounds of fury packed into a five pound bag.

“Foggy,” Matt says, hoping for confident. “This is Jessica.” He gestures with his hand. “We’re in a band together. Jessica, this is Foggy.”

“A band?” Foggy says, a little quiet, just as Jessica says, incredulous as ever, “Foggy? That’s a real name?”

“Nickname, but only my mom calls me Franklin,” Foggy replies, perfunctory and automatic. Jessica scoffs loudly and turns, her hair falling in a wave that smells like her shampoo – drugstore brand, clean smelling. She’s busy ordering when Foggy continues, “A band?” he repeats, quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”

Matt shrugs, sheepish. He ducks his head and pushes his glasses up his nose. “It’s new, I didn’t want to –” he swallows. God, he can’t do this here. “Jynx it.”

There’s another person that comes up to the bar, Jessica leaning in closer to Matt to accommodate, another voice, “Oh, you must be Matt!” It’s feminine, low and kind sounding.

He tilts his head up in surprise, brow furrowing. “Uh, yes –”

“Oh! I’m Jess’s girlfriend,” the voice says, “Trish.” Matt schools his face, despite his surprise. He’d been fairly certain that Jessica and Luke were together, but –

“She’s holding out her hand,” Foggy says, laughing softly. “He can’t see that.”

“Right,” Trish says, sheepish. Matt holds out his hand for her, an olive branch despite the strangeness of the situation. Trish’s handshake is just as firm as Matt would expect of anyone close to Jessica. Huh. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“I, uh.” Matt’s not entirely sure what to say. “Likewise. I didn’t realize –”

“Problem?” Jessica’s voice is sharp, cold enough to freeze hell and back.

Matt shakes his head, feeling his face color. “No, no, I just thought –”

“That you and Luke were exclusive,” Claire interjects, practically materializing from nothing in front of Matt. He breathes out a sigh of relief, immediate. “You know springing this crap on people doesn’t actually make for a good litmus test, right?”

Jessica cackles. “But it’s _fun_ , Claire,” she returns.

“Jessica can date as many people as she wants,” Trish says to Matt, gentle. “I know she loves me.”

“Oh,” Matt says, not understanding it at all. But Trish at least sounds happy, he thinks.

“So, Foggy, you’re the –” Jessica pauses, clearly searching. She’s probably looking at them. Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation. “Boyfriend?”

“Ex, actually,” Foggy says, just as Matt says, “Best friend.” Both of them laugh.

“Ex,” Matt says, just as Foggy says, “Best friend.”

Claire sighs. “Man, you guys are freaky when you do that.” She sets down another drink on the bar. Matt wishes that the scent of alcohol wasn’t so oppressive; he’d be happy if he could smell Claire’s bright, lemongrassy scent.

“So, band?” Foggy repeats as Trish orders her drink (martini, extra olives).

“Band,” Matt agrees. He nods his head, confirming, before adding with a tip of his beer bottle, “Jessica’s our drummer.”

“Neat,” Foggy says, bright. He's on his third beer - Claire delivering one that is each worse than the last, which Foggy accepts with a graceful flourish. It's nice; Matt’s two worlds - Foggy, work, _avocados_ and Claire, gentle smiles, teasing - don't often intersect, but when they do it leaves Matt feeling buffeted with warmth all over.

“She's very good,” Trish says, leaning in, pressing Matt and Jessica’s shoulders together. Matt laughs when Jessica scoffs under her breath next to him; she is good. “She's been playing since we were kids –”

“– to deal with my ‘emotional problems’, yeah,” Jessica returns. The bitterness in her tone is familiar, Matt realizes. He likes that she's unafraid to let someone know she's pissed. Respects it, honestly. “I just pretend they're your mom’s face.”

“Jess…” Trish cautions, low. A sore subject.

Matt presses his knee to Foggy’s looking for a bailout. “So how did this happen?” Foggy asks, leaning in. Matt can smell his hemp soap, his aftershave that smells like sandalwood, all achingly familiar. “I can't believe you're in a _band_ , dude.”

The warning is there for Matt alone; he hears it loud and clear.

“Well my boyfriend’s creepy neighbor apparently knows Claire and he accosted us,” Jess says, leaning in again. She smells like whiskey and burnt coffee and the floral scent, Matt realizes, is Trish’s perfume. Jessica pauses in her story to thank Claire, who sets another whiskey down in front of her. It's her fourth.

“Because Luke and I play together, sometimes - I guess he heard us, again, he's a creep - so he came to the bar and was like ‘please join my band that doesn't exist’,” Jessica’s leaning with her elbows on the bar. She pauses. Matt listens to her drink. “God. He plays the _keyboard_. Ugh. So, we _wanted_ to play with him for a bit, to shame him, you know –”

Claire laughs, the sound of her laughter bright. Matt turns his head to the sound. “Luke said something about helping him getting on his feet and bowing out later –”

“– yeah when he quits the band in shame, yep,” Jessica takes another drink. Her glass lands on the counter, sounding significantly lighter. Matt takes a drink of his own beer. He's heard this story before, because Jessica talks about it enough.

Danny’s a well-intentioned kid, probably. He's also an idiot who thinks he's got the best vocals in the world. But Matt likes Jessica and Luke enough and they both don't put up with Danny’s drivel. Matt's not sure Jessica realizes she's treating him like a kid brother; Matt’s not going to bring it up.

“But then this guy,” she says, poking Matt’s side. “Is too damn good. And now I'm stuck, out of like, honor to him.”

Matt feels himself flush. He cracks out a laugh and shakes his head. “I'm not –”

“Fuck off,” Jessica says, just as Foggy and Claire both sigh, “ _Matt._ ”

“Luke, use your walking sermon on the mount thing to tell Matt to shut up and accept that he's actually talented,” Jessica says, suddenly and Matt blinks in surprise. He hadn't even heard Luke come up.

“Oh, woah, hi,” Foggy says - it's his  _holy shit, hot guy_ voice - just as Matt says, “Walking sermon on the mount?” to Jessica.

“Not even a hello?” Luke rumbles, sounding amused. Matt’s not sure if he's speaking to him or Jessica, so the flush on the back of his neck deepens.

“Hey,” he says to Foggy, kind, as Jessica scoffs again at Matt’s side. “Luke Cage.” Matt can feel Foggy and Luke reaching around him to shake hands.

“Hi, Foggy Nelson, wow, you've got a good handshake,” Foggy rambles. Matt laughs, which luckily seems to kickstart Foggy’s brain. “You're in the band too, then?”

“That I am,” Luke says. Foggy settles back at Matt’s side. “You a friend of Matt’s?”

“Founder of the fan club,” Foggy says, which brings the heat back to Matt’s ears. “He even learned how to play guitar because of me.”

That draws a barking laugh out of Matt. “Because you wanted to pick up _chicks_ in college except you didn't know what _in-tune_ meant.”

“Oh god, you were one of those?” Jessica groans.

“I recovered!” Foggy says, raising his hands in defeat. “Did you know that learning Punjabi is actually a very effective way to pick up women?”

Jessica snorts. “Classy, Frogger.”

“Hey!” Foggy says, but he's laughing.

“Play nice, kids,” Claire says, returning to their corner of the bar as Luke takes the last seat on Foggy’s other side. “What’re you drinking Luke?”

“Water,” he replies. “I'm driving the girls home.”

“No you're not,” Jessica says. Matt can hear the frown.

“Yes I am, because I love you,” he returns. Trish says thank you. Jessica slumps and finishes her drink.

Matt listens to the exchange curiously. He's still trying to wrap his head around that. One partner is barely enough for Matt to handle, let alone two. And it's - the Ten Commandments. Matt furrows his brow.

Luke apparently catches his expression. “The sermon on the mount thing?”

He’s laughing when replies, “Uh, sort of, yeah.”

“My father was a preacher,” Luke says. “I forgot you wouldn't have seen the pictures.” They practice at Luke’s, Matt of course hadn't see them. It makes something ugly and uncomfortable twist around his spine. “Baptist minister in Georgia, before he passed.”

“Oh, I'm sorry for your loss,” Matt says, automatic. Even though he knows it's not enough; it's never enough.

“It's alright, it was a long time ago,” Luke says. He doesn't have the same reed of bitterness that Matt _knows_ leaks into his voice when talks about his dad. It's. Strange. He takes another drink of his beer. “But, I've been known to quote the Good Book.”

Foggy laughs. “I can't believe this,” he says, shaking his head between them. “Matt’s the most catholic guy I know. He goes to _latin mass_. And you're in a band with the son of a priest?”

“Preacher,” Matt and Luke correct at the same time. A smile tugs on the corner of Matt’s mouth. He can do this, at least. And – it's strange, to have someone follow the beats of this particular conversation. But nice.

“Priests can't have children,” Matt reminds him, gentle.

He's not thinking about the application to seminary school in his top dresser drawer. Especially not when Claire returns, setting down Luke’s water in front of him. “There you go,” she says, “how about you boys? Another round?” Matt can hear the smile in her voice, even though he's certain she's tired; she'd worked a shift this morning, he remembers.

“Sure,” Matt says, offering her a warm smile.

“You and Claire, huh?” Luke says, just as she turns away.

Matt’s face colors, his stomach dropping out from under him. “We’re not –”

“Seriously?” Jessica says, in disbelief.

“Finally!” Foggy cries. “My people! I've been trying to figure that out for _years_.”

“We’re _not_ ,” Matt says, a little firm, a little heavy.

“That's a shame,” Luke says, “she’s great.”

“God, it's so weird that you're friends with your exes,” Jessica says. She's drinking a new drink, but Matt doesn't remember her ordering one.

“Hey, my drink,” Trish says, laughing. She takes it back from Jessica. “Get your own.” There's a soft sound as she kisses Jessica’s cheek.

But - Luke and Claire, Matt’s mind reels -

“It was a long time ago,” Claire says, returning to their corner of the bar. Hopefully – if God's got any favors left to give Matt – after everyone's given him hell about her. She sets down Matt’s beer. “And we decided we were way better as friends. Which,” Matt doesn't need to see to figure she's gesturing towards him and Foggy, “doesn't seem to be all that uncommon.”

Foggy nods. “It's true. I'm also friends with my ex Marci –”

“I think passive aggressively trying to one up each other at work doesn't constitute a friendship,” Matt interrupts.

“You would know,” Foggy returns, but Matt can hear the smile. “Mr. Suma Cum Laude.”

“Really?” Trish says.

Matt shakes his head. “It's not that uncommon -”

“But -”

“Oh! Hey guys, I didn't know we were all going out tonight,” Danny Rand’s voice calls, approaching the bar.

“Oh my god he's twelve,” Foggy whispers. Matt hears Jessica laugh as Foggy says to Claire, “Can he even be in here?”

“Matt! Hey! What’re you doing here? I didn't think you'd ever come out!” Danny slips between Matt and Jessica.

“That's because he's anti-social,” Claire says, returning to get Danny’s drink order. And apparently to torture Matt.

He's flushing. “Hey! I'm in a band, I go out,” he says, half-defensive.

“Yeah buddy,” Foggy says, patting his back, “you're the paradigm example of social.”

“It's good to see you man,” Danny says, curling his arm around Matt’s shoulder. The touch is unexpected, jostles him a little. Danny smells earthy and sweet: weed.

“Good to see you too, Danny,” Matt says, while Danny orders an IPA.

Jessica kicks out at Danny - not hard, thankfully - “Hey asshole, get your own chair!”

“Love you too Jess,” Danny says, but slips away regardless. Claire sets down his drink - by Trish, Matt thinks, because she gives a quiet hello to Danny as she does.

“When did he start calling me Jess?” Jessica asks the group. Matt shrugs. He doesn't know, honestly.

“I just met you people,” Foggy returns.

“Yeah, well, don't call me Jess.”

 

* * *

 

Matt discovers, in March, that his greatest nemesis in life is pitch. Specifically, people who have little to no concept of pitch or, worse, things like song structure. People like Danny Rand.

It’s not that Danny is… a _bad_ person. He’s not, Matt’s sure, because he thinks that either Jessica, Luke, or Claire would have hit him so hard he'd be able to see stars if he really was _terrible_. It’s just that he says things like, _oh, worm?_ and texts them six-second videos at three in the morning even though Matt can’t _see them_. He’s courteous enough to send captioned ones, though, which is weird in its own way. It's ultimately that Danny’s not a _bad_ kid, just… annoying. 

He’s annoying and he really doesn’t have the pitch to be a lead vocalist.

“I – stop –” Matt says, finally shattering with frustration. There’s only so much he can take, really, of Danny’s warbling. Jessica’s kick drum stops last, a heavy thud echoing through Luke’s apartment.

“You good Murdock?” Jessica barks from behind him. She’s in some sort of mood today, Matt thinks. He’s not really about to ask.

“Yeah – just –” Matt sighs and rubs his hand down his face. _Father, forgive me_. “Danny?” he says, trying to keep his voice gentle. “Could you just – could we try something else, with that verse?”

Jessica snickers. Luke whistles, low. “Uh,” Danny starts, hedgy. Matt’s stomach twists with guilt already. “What were you thinking?” Danny asks. Ugh, this was stupid. He shouldn’t have said anything, but – his _ears_.

“Like, just –” Matt sighs and puts his fingers back over his frets, sliding back into the bridge of the song. The steel strings are rough against his hands. He grounds himself in that.

Matt starts to sing. “ _So come shake your zen out, and give me pure energy_ ,” he starts, the bits of the song that Danny’s been working on weaving in and out, just like the notes of the guitar he’s begun to tease out around the lyrics. He switches into his own lyrics, words he’s mumbled into his phone's recording app while practicing alone in his loft, “ _My heart is glowing flourescent, I want you to possess it. I’m not a prophecy come true._ ”

It’s strange, to do this again, to sing for _real people_ , not just the inside of his shower. But he finds himself slipping into the right octave instantly, as he pulls Danny’s lyrics back into the song, “ _I’ve just been goddamn mean to you._ ” The bass comes back in then, Luke's return to the song giving Matt enough of a surprise he slips over a note, dropping it, “I –”

Jessica strikes the snare, bringing herself back into the song. “If you stop, I’ll hit you with a drumstick, Murdock,” she cautions.

Matt keeps playing. He trusts the threat, despite the nerves curling in his stomach. He recovers, just as Danny's loop starts again. He forces himself to keep singing – Danny’s lyrics, still – “ _So what is this thing laced with? Please, don't replace me_.”

Impulsive, he moves his fingers up the frets, switching to a higher note, straining on the guitar. It sends thrill to him, to allow himself to sink into the song, into the space where he's able to hear the sounds before his guitar makes them, before his voice hits the notes. “ _I surrender, embrace me, whatever I'm faced with_.” Matt switches back into the familiar notes of the song, moving his hands back down the neck of his guitar. “ _I am a nightmare and you are a miracle_ –”

He stops, then, suddenly feeling sheepish; he can feel blood rushing to his face. The others stop playing. The silence feels oppressively loud. “Uh – like that, instead?”

Someone – Jessica, Matt thinks, because the sound comes from behind him – wolf whistles.

“Matt,” Danny says, “why haven’t you been singing for the last three months?”

“Or writing,” Luke adds. “That was –”

“Shit, Murdock, that was good,” Jessica says. “You’re _good_ at this.”

Matt feels the back of his neck heat. He clamps down his hand over it in a desperate and futile attempt to keep his flush from spreading up over his ears. It doesn’t work, obviously. “I –” he stammers, feeling. Exposed. “I don’t want to be –”

“Nope, you’re gonna,” Jessica says before he can even finish his sentence. “Who here wants Matt to take the lead on vocals?”

There’s a beat where no one says anything.

Matt sighs. A growing sense of defeat gnaws at his stomach. It's at odds with the strange thrill that had curled up his spine as he'd been singing, the band playing along with him. “If you’re raising your hands, I can’t see them.”

“Shit, assholes, everyone say _aye_ ,” Jessica corrects.


	3. don't want my fear to become my shadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which a friendship is started, a gig is played, frank castle tries to live his life, some secrets start to reveal themselves, and matt makes many bad decisions. 
> 
> content warnings: mild ableism, non-graphic descriptions of a panic attack, and references to abuse

When she's - finally - off the goddamn bus, Jess loudly curses the goddamn MTA for at least two blocks. Stupid motherfuckers who won't give the Kitchen an actual functioning subway line, ruining her life and making her take at _least_ two buses to get around. Fuckers. She needs a drink.

She's walking down 11th, glowering and sulking, when she sees a familiar flash of red hair, round red glasses. (Jess isn't entirely sure if that's an aesthetic choice or someone at the Sunglass Hut has it out for Matt.) Bulky army surplus coat; herringbone scarf. Matt Murdock is walking down the street toward her, cane in one hand and Clint’s lead in the other.

For a beat, she's too jarred to see him _out_ she doesn't say anything. Other than the night two weeks ago, when Matt had shown up at The Chaste with his ex-slash-best-friend, she doesn't see him outside of practice.

Which is fine. They've both given the impression that neither of them are looking for friends. Jess has Luke and Trish; Matt has Claire and Foggy. Their lists are full. Jess respects that.

But, still, she calls out, “Murdock!”

Clint barks. She can see Matt’s head tilt at the sound of her voice. His mouth pinches, tension running up his jaw as he clearly tries to place the voice. She forces herself to jog up.

“The boy who sold his soul to the devil for the guitar walks the streets, then,” she says by way of greeting.

His features ease. Clint presses his nose into Jessica’s palm. Matt chuckles, shaking his head. His mouth turns up at the corners. “Jessica,” he says. “What're you doing in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Trish’s podcast records nearby,” she replies. “You headed to the bar?” It's the only place she knows he's been to in the neighborhood. It's four-thirty in the afternoon. It's where Jess was headed. Trish is interviewing a band in Japan later tonight, so Jess is killing time because she'd gotten kicked out of the studio. Something about Jess being distracting while Trish tries to prep.

Matt’s face contorts in confusion. It only lasts for a beat, a fraction of a second. Jess is sure he doesn't even know his face does it, because then he shakes his head and laughs softly. “No, I'm headed home, I live around the block,” he says.

Clint’s tail thumps. He's sitting now, pressing his head against Jessica’s hand, desperate for pets. She gives in, because, duh, dog. His tongue lolls out the side of his mouth as she scratches behind his ears.

“You know, Murdock, you've got kind of a shitty service dog,” Jessica says, raising an eyebrow at him.

That draws a big laugh out of him. He presses the hand holding his cane to his chest and throws his head back. It completely cracks open his face. His mouth spreads wider than Jess’s ever seen, dimples pulling at his cheeks. Christ, she thinks, he must be a heartbreaker, for anyone who can get past his hard shell. He's not Jess’s type, but everyone loves a thin white guy who plays guitar that they think they can save.

“He's not,” Matt says after his crack of laughter. “He's just a dog. But everyone assumes that because I'm blind…”

“Oh,” Jess says, feeling kind of like an idiot. “Well. Then I guess he's an alright dog.”

“He's not bad when he tries,” Matt replies, still grinning. There's a beat, when Clint shifts, standing back up. He licks Jess’s hand. Matt’s expression shifts, his grin softening into a tentative smile. Jessica's eyebrow crawls up.

“Uh,” Matt says, “do you want to come up? I was just going to have a beer and some dinner. If, uh, you want?”

Ah fuck, he's too earnest for Jess to say no. She's powerless. Goddamnit. (Also, free beer with Matt beats Claire’s look of disappointment at The Chaste.) “Sure,” she says, shrugging. “Why the hell not?”

Matt’s smile inches back towards the wide grin he'd thrown her earlier. He looks relieved. “Okay,” he says, “great.” He sounds maybe a bit like he's psyching himself up. Jessica has to bite back a laugh. “Uh - I'm, uh -” he gestures around with the hand holding the cane “- this way.”

Jessica nods, remembers he can't see and says, “Lead the way.” She pauses. “Want me to take the dog?”

“Oh,” Matt replies. “Sure.” He holds out the lead - it’s red and black braided nylon, to match the collar on Clint. She takes it.

As they walk, Jess realizes that the strange, heavy incense scent that has been following them for a block is _Matt._ He doesn't smell like weed, like Danny, but it's - something else.

“Did you just spend like eight hours in a church?” she blurts, the paradigm of tact.

Matt chuckles. “I mean, not exactly,” he says, his grin curling up the side of his face. “But I just went to confession, so.”

“God, you're weird,” Jess mumbles. Matt laughs harder.

He slows, coming to a stop in front of one of those old warehouses-converted-to-apartment places. The brick is old, prewar. “This is me,” he says, reaching out and curling his fingers around Jess’s elbow as he turns them down to the set of stairs that lead to his door.

Jessica watches him fish his keys from his pocket, unlock the deadbolt and the knob. He does at all fluidly, juggling cane and keys in practiced motion. She knows she shouldn't feel so surprised. But she is.

Matt opens the door, holding it open for Jess and Clint. “You can hang the leash on the second hook from the door.” He gestures to the series of hooks on the wall. The first three are empty.

“Okay,” Jess says, more softly than she means. She steps aside so Matt can close the door and crouches down, busying herself with unhooking Clint’s leash. Matt locks the deadbolt before shedding his coat and tucking his scarf into the sleeve. He hangs it on the third hook, keys on the first.

Jessica slips the leash onto its appropriate hook. “S’all set.”

Matt gives her a grateful smile and leans his cane against the doorframe. “Thanks,” he says, before leading Jessica into his apartment.

It's - well, honestly, gorgeous. It's the kind of apartment that Trish would kill for. She'd say it had _character._ There's exposed brick and high, high ceilings. A modern kitchen, with a counter that wraps around; a partition wall at the south end of the apartment with a sliding industrial door that Jessica assumes leads to Matt’s bedroom. The wood on both the wall and counter is unfinished, though she supposed it's not an aesthetic concern for Matt.

But the main focus of the apartment is the wall of wide, massive windows that face out to the city. Jessica whistles as Matt wanders into the kitchen.

“What did you say you did again?” She asks, taking in the space.

There's a couch, some chairs. No TV, which she figures makes sense. A dog bed for Clint between the two armchairs. A bookcase against the dividing wall, filled and then some. His guitar, a small amp next to one of the armchairs. His guitar case is on the trunk that makes a coffee table. Another guitar, acoustic and _old_ , is propped up against the bookcase.

“Paralegal,” Matt answers from the kitchen. She looks over just as he opens the fridge. “Beer?”

“I'm only here to drink your beer and assume you're some trust fund baby, Murdock,” she says. Clint follows Jessica into the kitchen as she accepts a beer - German, she notes - from Matt.

He laughs again, the bright one that makes him throw his head back. “I'm definitely not one of those,” he says. He points towards the window, which is only mildly disconcerting, because his eyes don't follow, his head doesn't even turn.

She follows his gesture, though, and notices in the rapidly-darkening night that there's a massive LED billboard directly in view of the massive windows.

“Perk of being blind is that this apartment’s a steal,” he says, barely a flash of bitterness in his words. She notices, though. He opens his beer with a bottle opener before offering it up to her.

She takes it readily, cracking open her beer.

God, it's so fucking. Weird. To know Matt’s blind. When they're playing, it's not even really something she thinks about. He's _good_ , regardless of whatever sort of Catholic selflessness shit that keeps Matt from admitting it.

Hell, even here, watching Matt pad around his kitchen – opening the fridge, giving her a beer – it just feels… strange. But, he's blind. That's real. And apparently Jess has a whole bunch of shitty assumptions about blind people she’s gotta work through.

“Thanks,” she says after downing a quarter of the bottle, hating the way the word scrapes up her throat, clumsy and awkward.

“Sure,” Matt replies, taking the bottle opener back. He drops it in a drawer and leans back against the counter, taking a drink of his beer. He's unbuttoned the top buttons of his dress shirt - it makes sense, suddenly, why he dresses like a goddamn lawyer. He practically is one.

A blind lawyer. A blind lawyer who plays the guitar better than anyone Jessica's ever met and goes to confession on weeknights. What the hell?

“You can ask,” he says, suddenly. There's a bit of a smile inching across his features. Jessica looks at him, bewildered.

“I didn't -”

Matt gives her a good-natured smile. “You didn't have to,” he says, easy. “I could hear you pacing.”

Jessica looks at her feet. Shit, she hadn't even noticed that she'd started to walk back and forth across his apartment. “I. Sorry.”

“I was in an accident,” he says, easy enough. His voice stops Jess from saying anything stupid. The pink light from the billboard makes his hair look redder. “I was nine. I don't remember much.”

“Jesus, Matt,” Jessica says, sharp and sudden. She downs half of her beer. “I didn't -”

“It's okay,” he says, shrugging. He takes a drink from his bottle. “Really. You don't have to say anything.” He sets his bottle down and pushes off the counter. “You want something to eat?” he asks, like that's a normal fucking follow up.

“Sure,” she says, and drains the rest of her beer. She's nowhere near drunk enough for the conversation they're about to have. Especially not with Matt being so, so – aggressively normal.

“Stir fry?” he asks, crossing over to the fridge. She didn't notice when Matt had taken off his shoes, but there's something endearing about Matt padding around his kitchen in his dress socks, a softness at total odds with the fact that Matt’s just told her he'd been _blinded_ by some sort of freak accident as a kid.

“Sure,” Jessica says, folding into a barstool that's on the other side of the counter. “Grab me another beer?”

He doesn't question it; just offers her up another when he walks back over to the counter and reaches back into the drawer for the bottle opener.

“Are you sitting?” he asks, suddenly, as she hands the bottle opener back. “No, you're helping, c’mon.”

He holds up a pepper. “You cut, I wash?”

Jess rolls her eyes but she acquiesces anyway, sliding off the stool and leaving her jacket folded over the back to take two yellow peppers from him. She pulls a knife from the butcher’s block and starts to slice.

“My parents died in an accident, when I was a kid,” she says, surprised to hear herself say it. She surprises herself even more by adding, “My brother, too. Everyone but me.”

Matt doesn't say anything, for a beat. She doesn't dare look up from the chicken Matt’s handed her. It's good, to cut it up, avoid the sad expression on Matt’s face. She doesn't want his goddamn pity. She reaches for her beer, takes a long drink.

“My mom left when I was -” Matt pauses, and that draws Jessica’s gaze up, finally. “Before my accident,” he finishes.

He's taken off his sunglasses, Jessica realizes. His eyes are a bright hazel, amber imbued with green. They’re completely unfocused.

The sight of them is startling enough to make her swallow her biting _oh, wow, your mommy_ left _?_

“My dad died when I was twelve.” He finishes, dropping the onion and garlic she'd chopped in a pan on the stovetop. He takes a breath. “So, I’d say I'm sorry for your losses but -”

“Yeah, it doesn't help me sleep easier either,” she finishes.

Matt takes a drink from his beer. Jessica finishes cutting the chicken. It's weird, to have that out in the open. She's never just - told anyone. Just Trish, who knew because she’s known Jess ever _since_ the accident, and Luke. It’d taken her years to tell Luke about that – about the other stuff, too. Only after he’d bared his own well-hidden scars.

It freaks her out, a little, how it was suddenly so easy to give that information away. But - she glances back over at Matt - maybe it's easier when you know that someone else has seen shit too.

She's not going to tell him about Trish. That's private, how they grew up. She'd promised Trish. She's never going back on that, no matter how puppy-eyed Matt can look. Luke doesn't even know it. Trish is _hers._

Matt busies himself with cooking and Jessica sneaks back over to her barstool. Clint shoves his face at her hand and she stoops in her seat to scratch his ears.

“So,” she says, after a beat, as Matt’s apartment starts to smell of warm food, rice bubbling away in another pot on the stove. (It's still amazing to her, that he's doing all of that - which Jess knows is shitty, she does.) “Did you start playing guitar before or after?”

Matt chuckles. God, this guy’s too good natured for her. She thinks she'd kill him in his sleep. “After,” he says, “but I played piano, before. Foggy wanted to pick up girls, like he said -”

She remembers. Right. Weird ambiguously bi best friend/ex with the novelty tie. “Yeah, I remember.” She takes a drink, leaning her elbows on the countertop. “God, you played piano? What, for church?”

He does that big, guffawing laugh again; the one that pulls his head back. “You got it,” he says and kills the heat on the stovetop. He fishes a spoon out of the metal holder on the counter and begins to spoon rice, chicken, and peppers into bowls. “Spoon or fork?” he asks.

“Fork?” Jessica half-answers. She's not really a home cooked meal kind of girl. Takeout usually comes with, like, one of those plastic sporks.

Matt brings their dinner over, folding into the stool next to hers. It's fully dark now, but the loft is lit up in LED technicolor in rotating hues of pink, blue, purple. Matt reaches up and scratches his jaw.

Honestly, Jessica’s not an idiot nor is she blind. She thinks Claire’s an idiot if she hasn't made a move on Matt yet. He's cute in that adorable, puppy way, with his hazel eyes and ginger stubble. And, from what Jess is tasting, a good cook.

Clint, from his position between them, whines as they start to tuck in. Matt shakes his head, clucking. “Don't let him guilt you,” he says to Jess, the corner of his mouth tugged up into a grin. “He's good at acting like he doesn't get ridiculously expensive organic dog food every morning.”

Jess meets the dog’s imploring eyes. Ah, fuck.

She puts her finger to her lips and bends over with a piece of chicken between her fingers. Matt laughs at the wet sound of Clint snuffling at Jess’s hand to eat from it.

“Alright,” Matt says, sighing. He tosses a piece of chicken from his plate towards the floor. Clint catches it in a perfect snap of his jaws.

There's another lull; not an uncomfortable silence, but one Jessica feels around her like a soft blanket. Quiet between them as Matt’s fork scrapes the bowl and Jess finishes her beer, Clint licking his teeth.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and sneaks a photo. She sends it to Claire. Because she's a good friend like that.

“I, uh,” Matt starts, sounding more uncomfortable than Jessica’s heard him sound all afternoon. She panics almost immediately, hands freezing over her phone. There's just no way Matt could know she'd taken a picture of him - not unless he has super powers.

“Thanks, Jessica,” he says finally. Jess freezes. Her brow furrows. “I don't, uh, normally do this. But it's nice - to hang out.”

She laughs then, cackling. “Neither do I, Murdock.” She nudges his elbow with her own. “It’s Jess,” she says, feeling something almost like warmth in her limbs. She takes a drink from her beer. “By the way.”

 

* * *

  

It’s late April when Claire asks, “So are you guys ever going to actually _be_ a band?”

Matt looks up from the pad thai takeout Jess isn’t supposed to have in the bar. They’re all piled into a corner booth in the back of the bar. Matt sits at the end of the ‘c’ shaped booth, Foggy on his right, Luke, Jessica, and Trish in the middle, with Danny and his girlfriend Colleen across from Foggy and Matt. Claire’s sitting on a chair she’d pulled up. It’s a slow Tuesday night.

“What do you mean?” he asks as Danny says, incredulous, “We _are_ a real band. We’re The Defenders.”

Jess groans. “God, that name still sucks.”

“Well, not all of us could have been in bands named _Jewel_ ,” Matt returns. He’s not bothered by the name. It’s better than _Black Sky_. The Defenders has a nice ring to it.

“ _Jewel_?” Foggy echoes, laughing.

“I can’t believe this,” Jessica says. “I tell you something in confidence and you just –”

Matt throws Jess a grin. He doesn’t need to see to know she flips him the bird. He’s been around her enough to know her go-to retorts.

“Alright, alright,” Luke says, but Matt can hear the smile in his voice. From the sound of shifting vinyl, he thinks Luke’s putting his arm around Jessica’s shoulders. “We’ve named the band, I bought a domain, this argument has been _tabled_.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Danny says.

“I don’t think that’s how the law works,” Jessica mutters.

“That’s true,” Foggy says, already eager to throw out case law he’s studied. Matt rolls his eyes. “If there’s no contract or –”

“ _Guys_ ,” Claire says, slipping into her ‘I’m-taking-charge’ voice. But Matt can hear the smile in it, too. It’s the same voice she uses at church, with the kids. It pulls a matching smile to his face. “What I _meant_ was we had our band for next Friday night cancel. I was _hoping_ that since you’re my _friends_ you’d be willing to help out.”

That shuts the table up. Matt feels _nerves_ – real, cold and powerful nerves – crawl up his vocal chords. His face freezes, mouth slightly agape. Performing. For other people. Something he hasn’t done since senior year of _college_.

Foggy shifts next to him, his knee pressing against Matt’s.

“Well, shit, don’t jump in all at once,” Claire says.

“You’re serious?” Danny asks, just as Jessica asks, “Would we be getting paid?”

Luke and Trish laugh. Matt is trying very hard to breathe like a normal human being. He’s been on that stage at The Chaste before, just for his audition but – he tries to remember what it was like, before, playing shows. Loud, confusing, but there was always –

“What part of _my friends_ and _helping me out_ wasn’t clear enough?” Claire returns.

Jessica grumbles something and throws back the rest of her whiskey, the glass _thunking_ onto the table. “I figured it was just worth asking,” she says, sheepish.

“So?” Danny asks, sounding closer, and more serious – which, Matt honestly thinks is a feat, because he’s _extremely_ stoned, Matt can smell the weed on him. “What do you guys think?” Danny’s own answer is obvious. This is what he’s wanted the entire time, Matt knows.

“Shit, man, I don’t care,” Jessica says. That’s a yes, in Jess-speak, then.

“I think we’re ready,” Luke adds. There’s a pause, before he adds, “What about you, Matt?”

Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. _The Lord is my shepherd_ – “Uh,” Matt says, forcing himself to swallow even though his throat’s gone dry. “If everyone’s in agreement, then, sure,” he hears himself say.

Well, shit. He’s done that then.

Claire’s sigh of relief is loud. Something tugs in Matt’s middle. “Good,” she breathes, leaning in close enough now that Matt can smell her: clean and minty, an undertone of antibacterial soap. Her hand wraps around Matt’s wrist on the table. Her thumb sweeping over his pulse point. Her hands are soft on his skin, warm. “Thanks, guys,” she says, a little louder.

He feels himself smile against his better judgement. He’s going to play for Claire. That's just how it goes. Matt’s fingers twitch, brushing against her wrist.

“So!” Foggy says, too loud next to Matt. “Anybody catch the Mets game?”

“I'm more of a Yankees fan,” Danny says, as Jessica scoffs.

Claire’s hand slips from Matt’s wrist, spreading over the table next to his own. The ouroboros inked into his wrist aches against the sticky and varnished wood.

Later, much later, he and Foggy have stumbled back to Matt’s apartment, laughing and loose with beer, warm with whiskey. Foggy collapses into Matt’s bed, spreading his limbs out over Matt’s sheets, grasping at the fabric, the sound comforting and familiar.

“Matt your bed’s so _fancy_ ,” Foggy slurs. “So soft.” He's still wearing most of his clothes. His belt is gone - in Matt’s bathroom, he thinks, maybe with his tie. “I always liked this in college.”

Matt laughs. “Cotton’s like sandpaper,” he says, dropping onto the bed next to him. Foggy is a furnace next to him. Matt’s bed is more than big enough for the two of them now, but they still crowd close, like they're tucked into Matt’s rickety dorm bed. He shucks his shirt and tie off. It can fall on the floor tonight. That's okay. Mess is okay. Matt Murdock is drunk and he's leaving his shirt and tie on the floor.

He hasn't felt like this in years: loose, flushed with warmth, comfortable, free to laugh with every other word, _happy._

“It's so weird that you're in a band again,” Foggy says, then, his hand patting against Matt’s arm. “Like, good weird - I like your band friends. They're kind of scary. Well. Jessica is scary. Luke is _hot_. Danny’s a Yankees fan, but I suppose he can be spared. He's a baby. He doesn't know.”

Matt cackles at Foggy’s drunk rambling. He shifts onto his side. Foggy smells like the bar - smoke and stale beer, but under it he can still catch his hemp soap.

“I know,” he admits, something hammering drunkenly in his chest.

“And you're playing a _show_ ,” Foggy continues, sounding wide-eyed with amazement. “You haven't done that since –”

It's that that makes something twist and snap in Matt. “Don't,” he says, all too fast. He goes to scrub his face and realizes he's still wearing his glasses. “Fuck.”

Matt pulls his glasses off and takes a moment, very deliberately making sure he's placing his glasses on the nightstand. They're expensive to replace, if he breaks them. He's not really planning on it.

_Fuck_ , he thinks as he settles back on the bed, still pressed against Foggy’s side. He’s playing _shows._

“Hey, hey,” Foggy says, reaching out for Matt again. His hand finds Matt’s in the low-light, not quite dark of his apartment at night. “It’s _good_ that you’re doing this. Moving on. Matt… _Matt_ … I’m so proud of you.” Foggy’s voice is tight, impossibly earnest and it grates against Matt’s innards.

God, he thinks as Foggy starts to snore beside him, he doesn’t want this to fall apart.

 

* * *

  

Matt is fiddling with his t-shirt hem. He’s sitting on the edge of the stage, waiting for Jessica to finish fucking with their amps so they can soundcheck. Danny’s trying to help. It’s not going well. Then he’s up first. Which is why he’s sitting here, twisting up his t-shirt in his nervous hands. _Fuck_. He shouldn’t be this nervous, he thinks. It’s been _years_ since he’s done this. But –

Maybe that’s exactly why he’s fucking paralyzed.

“Hey,” a soft, familiar voice says. He raises his head at the sound. It’s folded in familiar concern – though Matt doesn’t normally hear it directed towards him. There’s the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor. “Matt,” Claire says, quiet.

Her knees press against his, Claire’s way of letting him know how close she is. “You doing okay?” she asks, gentle.

Matt forces himself to nod. “I’m fine,” he says, forceful, the words moving around the bones in his throat.

“Yeah?” she says, in complete disbelief. He can practically hear the way her eyebrow raises up.

He can’t lie to Claire. He hasn’t been able to in the five years he’s known her. It’s the same problem he has with Foggy, honestly. There’s just something in Matt’s chest that unfurls with the sounds of their voices. _Dear God_ , he thinks.

“I’m –” Matt swallows. “Nervous.”

Claire breathes out a laugh. Matt can hear Jessica cursing, behind them. There’s a thud, Danny saying, “Sorry!” and Jessica demanding a beer. Luke’s slow and steady voice intervenes.

“Well, okay,” Claire says. Her hands cover Matt’s, stretching his arms out across his legs so their hands curl together at the place their knees press together. Her thumbs sweep over Matt’s knuckles. Her hands are soft, warm. Matt tries not to sink into her touch. It’s not a successful attempt.

“God grant me the serenity,” Claire starts, low, quiet – only audible to Matt. Something heaves in his chest, knowing she’s doing this just for him.

He’s following along automatically, speaking just as low. “To accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”

They make their way through the prayer like that, heads bowed, hands together. Her thumbs tracking back and forth over Matt’s knuckles until his breathing levels out. Until his heart rate’s evening out. Until he feels like can stand and pull his guitar over his shoulders.

Matt sighs, the vestigial knots in his shoulders unfurling as Claire gives his hands a final squeeze when they finish the prayer. She slides her hands from his and presses them against her thighs. He hears her palms rub on the denim of her jeans.

“You good?” she asks, louder now that their litany is ended.

He nods. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Her index and forefinger scratch against his knee. “Don’t mention it,” she says, the smile audible in her voice. Matt’s own lips quirk up in a tiny reply.

“Murdock!” Jess calls. “When you’re done flirting, will you come and sound check so we can get this goddamn show on the road?” She’s stressed; but Matt’s not anymore. Not really.

Claire pushes up from her seat and drags her chair away, walking back over to where she’d been stocking the bar. Matt forces himself to stand and rubs his hand over the back of his neck before pulling himself onto the stage. Jess presses his guitar into his outstretched hand.

It’s strange, to go through the motions after so long. But he falls into the old pattern easily; calling out “Check, check, check… one, two, three…” as he waits for the guy at the soundboard to give him the all-clear to start singing.

“You’re good, Matt!” Danny calls. It’s – nice. Especially since Foggy’s still at the office. “He can’t _see_ , you know?” Danny adds, lower, to the guy at the soundboard. That’s – less nice sounding. But, best intentions, Matt supposes.

He tries to shake it off and busts through the chorus of one of the songs he and Danny wrote together. “ _I’m happy to admit that maybe I am a little depressed, ‘cause I’m missing you to death_.”

“Alright then, let’s try the guitar,” his voice is low, rough like gravel. Loud, though, perfectly clear. Matt doesn’t bother with his _blind, not deaf_ , speech. He can already feel the nerves starting to inch back up his spine.

He just plays; runs through the chords from the same song. He pauses and listens, correcting when the sound guy asks. They run through the bridge with his pedal on, and then it’s over. He’s careful to set his guitar somewhere safe when he hops off the stage for Luke to run through the same check.

Luke touches his elbow as he passes, letting Matt know he’s near – though Matt could smell his aftershave, it’s a nice gesture.

“See?” Claire says when he reaches the bar. She sets down a bottle on the counter, pushing it close to that it touches his fingers. Matt gives her a smile in thanks. “You’re going to be fine.”

He lowers his beer, grateful for the drink to loosen his nerves. “I – yeah.”

Claire hums. “Don’t let Frank freak you out, he’s rude to everyone,” she says, gentle.

In his walking past – he has a heavy gait, Matt notices – Frank calls over, “I’ll have you know I’m delightful.” Claire laughs at that. It’s strange, jarring – feels a bit like someone’s yanked out the rug under him. It’s just. Frank, who is settling on the bar next to Matt, smells like cigarettes and a bit like motor oil, is kind of rude and making Claire laugh and –

Matt feels an ugly roll of possessiveness strike through him. He swallows back more of his beer as Claire slides a glass over to Frank.

“So, Red,” Frank says, in his voice like a rockslide, “your voice sounds familiar.”

Oh no, no, no. He hears Claire’s hands squeak over a faucet, turning off the water she’d been running through a glass. “Red?” Matt manages, furrowing his brow.

It’s just as Frank says, “Black Sky? 2010?”

Matt forces himself to nod. “Yep,” he says through his teeth.

“Glad to see you back at it.” And then Frank pulls his glass off the counter with a scrape against the wood and he’s gone. _What the fuck?_

“See what I told you?” Claire says.

By the time Foggy arrives at The Chaste, it’s _crowded_. The band’s claimed their corner booth, with Trish and Colleen holding court inside it as Jessica has it out with the bar’s owner, a rather stern-sounding woman Matt doesn’t know.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, you know, the bus,” Foggy says, all in a rush as he slides into the booth next to Matt. He smells like the street, but under it Matt catches the familiar scent of Foggy’s soap and he clings to that like a lifeline. “How’re you holding up?”

Matt nods. “I’m good.” It’s not entirely _un_ true. But. He takes a sip of his beer.

“Good of you to make it, Frogger,” Jessica says as she materializes at the both. She’s being extra short with everyone, has been for the last twenty minutes.

“Jess,” Trish breathes. “C’mon, let’s go out for a minute.” The booth creaks as Trish slides out the other end, leaving Foggy, Matt, and Colleen. Luke’s helping Danny triple-check something on his keyboard. Matt can tell the kid is nervous too.

It’s – he wants to be able to tell Danny that he remembers his first show, bouncing off the walls so goddamn full of nervous energy. But there’s the other half of that story, that ends with a blowjob in a dirty bathroom, that Matt isn’t even ready to pull out from the tight box of memories he has buried deep in his chest.

“Did I text you about the stupid thing Marci did today?” Foggy asks, no hint of stress in his voice; just _Foggy_ , familiar and complaining about his ex-girlfriend and kind-of supervisor at the firm where they both work. He launches pell-mell into a story about how Marci misfiled a constituent report for a local politician that Landman and Zack represents and how Foggy had found it in a folder of receipts from billed meals out, saving the day and shoving it to Marci.

It’s nice, distracting, to sink into the familiar beats and rhythms of Foggy’s voice. By the time Jess and Trish reappear, it’s been long enough that Matt can figure out exactly what they’ve been doing and for Danny and Luke to return to the table as well.

“Well,” Luke says, “It’s time.”

Foggy claps Matt’s shoulder as he stands to let him out. “You got this, buddy,” he says, full of confidence and warmth. Matt flashes him a tight grin.

Before they climb up to the stage, Luke stops them. “Hey,” he says, quiet and barely audible. They turn towards him. Jessica’s shoulders bump between Matt and Luke. “Forward,” he says, very low and serious, reverent. “Always.”

The leather of Jessica’s boots creak as she leans up to press a kiss to Luke’s cheek. It’s a surprisingly sweet gesture and makes Matt swallow, nervous.

“I’m not doing that with you,” Danny says, sounding so impossibly serious, it shatters the tension. Matt laughs, frantic and nervous energy curling out of him as he throws his head back.

“Jesus _Christ_ , kid,” Jessica says, slipping past Matt and Danny to get onstage. “Get up on the damn stage.” Luke and Danny follow suit.

Matt swallows nervously, crosses himself, and pushes himself up onto the stage, taking up the rear after everyone else.

“Hey everyone,” Danny says into the mic. He’s doing that thing he does when he tries to seem cool – speaking lower than Matt _knows_ his regular voice is. It’s – loud, very, very fucking loud on stage. “We’re The Defenders.”

Jessica’s counting off, Matt barely able to focus on the sound. He can’t believe how loud it is on the stage, the sound of the bar – all the voices, the yelling as they start to play, Matt’s hands moving numbly across his guitar, Claire calling out drinks, oh, God –

It’s. Not great.

Danny picks up the vocals and Luke edges in close, his shoulder pressing against Matt’s. He leans into it and they move, together, their backs lining up. Luke is warm, strong and steady against Matt’s back. His shoulders roll as he cuts through basslines. Matt’s back is to the audience. Luke’s solid form makes things – quieter. Just enough.

Fuck, he can’t believe this is happening. He’s shaking, when the first song comes to an end and he can hear it – the rumble of the crowd.

Right now, he misses her. He misses the way she could charm anyone, any crowd. Charm him.

“Murdock,” Jessica calls. He inches closer. “Take a drink,” she says, firm, sure. He stretches his hand out and finds the beer she’s offering to him. He takes it and pulls a deep drink from it.

There’s more than beer in the bottle. It hits him in a rush. “You good?” Jess asks when he hands her back the bottle.

He feels warm all over. He’s got to force himself to do this. Matt can hear Stick, bored, _I thought Murdocks never quit_. Matt rolls his jaw.

“I’m good,” he says, giving her a curt nod. He breathes out through his nose, turns, and slides back into place at the mic.

Jessica starts the drum roll into their next song.

Matt swallows and lets himself dip into a reservoir of, of – hurt, anger, betrayal, all the things he doesn’t allow himself to feel. _Anger is a spark, use it_.

He slides through the first chords of the song, the steel of his guitar strings sharp against his fingers. He leans into the microphone stand. “ _How does everything start and end?_ ” he growls.

It’s not perfect, not even close. It’s horrible, really. Matt thinks it’s the worst he’s played in his whole life. The set leaves Matt feeling raw and hollowed out, a feeling he doesn’t like; one he hasn’t felt in years.

Foggy’s at the side of the stage before Matt’s even off it. “Hey,” he says, voice folded over in concern and worry. Shame claws its way up Matt’s throat, forceful and angry. _Christ_. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he insists. He can hear Jessica’s scoff from behind him. This was stupid; he shouldn’t have done this. Stupid, idiotic, stupid. Matt sucks in a breath. He turns, to where he knows the rest of the band is. “I’m, uh – I’ll see you all.”

“Jesus, Matt,” Foggy says, but Matt’s already grabbing his cane from where Claire had shown him to stash it. Foggy mumbles an apology to the rest of them and his footsteps follow Matt out of the bar and onto the street.

 

* * *

 

On Sunday, after mass and as the parishioners are starting to trickle out of the rectory dining room, Claire corners Matt in the kitchen, pressing a cup of coffee into his hands before he can even manage to say _hey, Claire._

“You disappeared on everyone,” she says, an inch of accusation flashing in her words. The coffee smells strong, dark. He usually takes cream in his. The fact that she hasn’t given any is maybe a sign that she’s upset. Instantly, the guilty feeling Matt’s been carrying in his chest rises up, as strong as it had been on Friday night.

“I didn’t –” Matt starts.

“But you did.” There’s a shift, a creak, as she leans back in one of the folding chairs at their card table. “Everyone was really worried about you.”

Matt feels his neck heat. His hands are wrapped around his coffee. It’s very hot and the pain is steadying. He clenches his jaw, not really sure what to say. Not sure where to start or if to start. Claire knows about, well – his old band. But not about Stick; not about that.

And Matt doesn’t like the way that it’d made him feel, slipping back into that place. The person Stick made him be.

“So what happened?” she asks – quieter. Trying for understanding.

“I –” Matt opens and closes his mouth. He exhales, loudly, and pulls his hand down his face. He needs to shave, he realizes as his palm slides over stubble that’s just this side of too-long. “It was – much louder. Than I thought.”

He listens to her breathe. She shifts, her chair creaks, the fabric of her dress moving. Her coffee cup pushing across the table. Her forearm presses against his, warm, solid. Matt exhales, ounces of tension uncurling from his spine.

“Okay,” Claire says, quiet. She doesn’t ask him what he means. She doesn’t say anything. Matt’s thankful for it. But he wishes she’d say… just something. Anything. He can practically feel her thinking. He’s known her long enough to know when she’s trying to figure out what to say to him. That she’s got thoughts that can’t just be _said_.

It makes Matt nervous, something flipping around in his chest.

“You should call them, you know,” she says, finally. Her fingers twitch against Matt’s elbow, stroking up and down against his shirtsleeve. “They’re your _friends_ , Matt.” He hears her tongue, dart out over her lips, almost silent. “I don’t think it would hurt to tell them at least a _little_.”

“It’s complicated,” Matt replies. It’s a crappy excuse. But – he can’t. There’s just things he’s never going to let out the trap he’s built in his chest for them. No matter how hard they rattle the cage.

Claire sighs. It’s a sigh Matt’s familiar with, from both Claire and Foggy. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

“It could be uncomplicated,” she counters, a hopeful slide to the words.

Matt shakes his head. “I don’t know how to do that.”

She sighs in reply. It’s a draw. Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. There’s a beat, horrible and too fucking long, where Matt thinks it’s over, that he’s fucked this up completely. Panic, all-too familiar, crawls up his throat at the thought.

“You want cream for your coffee?” she asks.

Matt exhales.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big ol props to [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/) for the beta reads and helping me figure out frank; to [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) and [moonheist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist) for the cheerleading. and to all of y'all!! thanks for the love, it warms my cold dead heart.
> 
> the next update'll be out at some point within the week. we're looking at about a 10 chapter fic here. there's gonna be Conflict, but this is a fic about friends, mostly. and matt/claire. 
> 
> you can come yell at me on [tumblr](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com).


	4. if you feel ready to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which danny rand is the worst well-meaning person ever, matt tries out this whole "friendship" thing, and the band plays some music. (also! i realized that i never made something clear: claire is a bartender part-time and an EMT the rest of the time. sorry for any confusion!)
> 
> content warnings: slightly more than mild ableism, rich people being rich people (if i fuck anything up, as always, please let me know)

“ _Danny, Danny, Danny_ ,” Matt’s phone announces, just as he’s ducking out of the cramped office he shares with Foggy at Landman and Zack. It’s Tuesday, now three days into Matt’s self-imposed isolation from the band. He still feels fucking guilty. Like he’s fucked up in a way he can’t undo.

So he’s doing the right thing and avoiding everyone.

Except now Danny Rand is  _calling_ him and that only makes Matt feel all the more guilty.

He answers the phone. “Hey.”

“Matt!” Danny replies, bright – a bit tinny, like he’s outside, on the street. “I figured it would be easier to call you, because, you know –”

Oh, good. Matt forces down a swallow. “Yeah, usually phone calls work better for me,” he says flatly. “What’s going on?”

Danny laughs, apparently oblivious. “I was going to ask  _you_ that. Want to meet for lunch? I’m in the neighborhood.”

Matt frowns. “You’re in the financial district?” It seems like the very opposite of where Danny would ever want to be, considering the effort he puts into being… what was the word he’d used? A _softboy_?

“Yeah,” Danny says, bright. “Foggy mentioned you guys work up there and I thought I’d meet you for lunch.”

Matt chokes out a laugh. Of course Foggy did. He’s going to have to have a word with him, later. “Sure,” Matt hears himself saying. “Sounds great. You can text me the address?”

The place Danny sends Matt is… fancy. Much fancier than the hot dog cart around the block from Landman and Zack; fancier than the Thai takeout place Foggy and Matt will treat themselves to on payday. There’s cloth napkins on the tables and the scent of very expensive olive oil in the air.

Matt’s fiddling with his napkin in his lap, the cotton rough against his skin, while Danny orders a bottle of wine. _What the hell?_

“You doing okay, man?” Danny asks when their waitress leaves, her heels clicking on the well-varnished wood floor. “The show was –”

Matt feels the same ugly old guilt, back in full force as soon as the words start to come. “I’m sorry,” he says, strained. He rubs at his jaw.

“Matt…” Danny sounds like he’s searching for the right word. “It’s okay. Really. Claire explained to us that it was probably really overwhelming for you.” Matt’s eyebrows crawl up his face. Claire did _what?_

“That, because you have to rely on your other senses, the noise was probably disorienting,” Danny continues, apparently oblivious to the shock and anxiety crawling across Matt’s face. “I feel pretty stupid for not thinking about it before.”

“I – what?” Matt says, feeling thrown.

Danny presses on, “So, we had a meeting –”

“What?” Matt repeats, his throat constricting. _What?_

“Because I had an idea, but everyone said that it would work if I actually talked to _you_ about it, so, like, hi.” There’s a pause. “Oh, shit. I waved. Uh, yeah.”

Matt can’t even figure out what kind of look of horror is spread across his face. “Danny, what the hell?”

“In-ear monitors,” he says brightly. Matt blinks. “They can cancel out noise you don’t want to hear and leave in the stuff you _do_ want to hear!”

Matt blinks. _What_? He feels like he’s trying to run after a moving car. “Okay,” he says, slowly, carefully. “But I don’t have any of those. And they’re expensive.” Or, well, they sound expensive. Matt has no clue what Danny’s talking about.

“That’s okay,” Danny says, sounding very sure of himself. “I’ve still got access to the Rand family accounts, even though I told them I wasn’t coming back until my parents stopped drilling for oil in the Amazon.”

He blinks again, harder. Matt’s _definitely_ lost the thread of the conversation now. It’s beyond gone. Elsewhere. _The Rand family accounts_?

Holy fucking shit. It clicks for Matt. That’s how Danny has an apartment in Harlem all to himself. That’s how Danny has a fancy keyboard. It’s why he’s so… _Danny_ about things. He’s _Danny Rand_. Of Rand Enterprises. Christ. Matt fights the urge to cross himself.

“So let me get this straight,” Matt says, slow, deliberate. “You want to use… your parents’ money to get me in-ear monitors. So we can play shows?”

When he says it like that, it hits him like a freight train to the chest. He – _holy shit_. Danny wants to do something for him. Something huge and impressive and beyond utter comprehension for Matt. What the hell.

“That’s the plan,” Danny says. “Custom set, so it’ll keep you from having the same problems you did last time.” He sounds so pleased. Holy shit.

“Jesus, Danny,” Matt breathes.

“Is that a yes?” Danny asks, sounding bright and giving Matt the chance to hear the smile that’s starting to pull on Danny’s features. “That’s great, Matt! I already have the appointment scheduled.” He doesn’t give Matt so much as a chance to say yes, to even so much as say, _wait a minute,_ what _appointment?_ “I think it’ll help loads and then we can _play_ and –”

“Danny,” Matt says, “ _Danny_.”

He stops. There’s a click, as his teeth set. “Slow down. I –” he swallows. It’s too _much_ , to consider. That Danny’s so willing to just – make things like _custom appointments,_ to order wine at a restaurant in the financial district at noon on a Tuesday afternoon.

It makes Matt’s stomach curl up around his ribs, wary and looking for strings like a nervous animal. He can’t –

“I can’t accept this,” Matt says, shaking his head. “It’s—” Matt pauses, halting, swallowing. _I don’t want your charity_ hangs heavy in the air. “Too much, Danny.”

“No, no, no, listen,” Danny says, undeterred. “It’ll be great. I promise. It’s nothing, really. No one’s going to miss the funds, and besides, it’s taking money away from my dad. So. Bonus.”

Matt grinds his teeth. Danny wants to keep playing shows. Clearly Matt can’t do that, the way things are now. That’s what Danny _wants_ out of this. And Matt, well. Matt’s not an idiot, he’s trying to tease out the strings attached here; what he’ll have to pay in the end for agreeing to this.

But mostly – mostly Matt tries to think about what Claire would do.

He thinks Claire would take them. That she’d tell him that Danny’s _trying_. He can hear her voice still, _They’re your_ friends, _Matt._ He sighs, defeated and something twists in his chest, at that. He rubs his hand over his face.

“Alright,” he says, swallowing back the nerves that push up his throat as he gives in. “Let’s try it.”

“Really?” Danny breathes. He sounds like a kid on Christmas, excited enough that Matt hears the way his grin breaks across his face in one word. “ _Yes!_ This is awesome, I’m gonna text everyone – Jess wouldn’t let me just order them for you, said I should ask you first, which is better anyway, since they’re better fitted to your ear and Foggy said it’d be weird, to try to just _do that_ –”

“Foggy?” Matt asks, bewildered. _Foggy_ talked to Danny about him?

It’s at the same time his phone chimes, announcing a new text from Danny Rand. He’s group chatting. The replies come in – Jessica Jones, Luke Cage – and Matt shoves his phone under his leg, just trying to get the sound to dampen.

Their waitress returns and it’s only on manners drilled into him from Catholic school that he remembers to flash her a smile and thank her, his body moving on autopilot as he tries to wrap his head around what Danny’s saying.

( _They’re your_ friends _, Matt._ )

“Yeah,” Danny says, pulling his plate towards him. His silverware clacks against the china. “He called once he made sure you were home, which, by the way, _not_ cool of you to ditch us, Jess was _pissed_ –” he shovels food into his mouth, keeps talking regardless, “– but like, whatever, I get it, sometimes you gotta have alone time. We just wanted to make sure you were gonna be _good_ , you know?”

Matt feels the back of his neck heat. “I –” He feels the heavy press of guilt. He’s sure Jess was angry. It’s why he’s been avoiding everyone, really. “Thank you,” Matt says, quiet. “I’m not sure I deserve it, but thank you.”

“Matt,” Danny says, concern cutting clean through the single syllable of Matt’s name. “We’re your friends. That’s what friends do.”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after their set at The Chaste, Jess is trying really, really hard not to be angry at Matt anymore. It’d been fucking _shitty_ of him to ditch, after their set. Yeah, it wasn’t _great_. Yeah, they’d had better practices than the show. But – well. She wasn’t going to get all _dramatic_ about it. She was going to be sensible and drink about it.

Matt, apparently, was going to get all dramatic about it.

Still – she doesn’t like the look that crossed over his friend’s face, when Matt stepped off the stage. The way his face pretty much collapsed at the sight of Matt. It’s a face Jess is familiar with. She’s seen it enough on Trish to recognize it in a heartbeat.

Claire made the same one when they snuck back to the bar, their gear and Matt’s shoved into the back of the van that Claire’s mom loaned them for the night.

That’s why she’s trying not to be mad at Matt Murdock. Because she knows he’s fucked up and because Trish and Luke and just about everyone else that she still talks to these days have given her enough leash to be an asshole herself.

Also, because they’re supposed to start band practice and they’re waiting for Matt to show up. Danny’s telling Luke about the monitors he’d ordered Matt, the ones sitting on top of Danny’s keyboard in their box, for the thousandth time.

Jess is tap-tap-tapping her drumsticks against her legs, trying not to listen. Because she doesn’t care and it’s annoying, that Danny can’t ever fucking _shut up_. But she doesn’t want to fight with Luke because Luke has the patience of a saint to listen to Danny again and again. It’s not a virtue Jessica ever cared to learn.

(When you’re impatient, people don’t expect much of you. She likes it best that way.)

That’s when Matt walks around the corner, into Luke’s living room – which they’ve reclaimed as band space, the couch pushed against the far wall and into the corner, Jessica’s back to the bookcase and the TV relegated to the bedroom – and he looks like shit.

Danny and Luke are following in behind him. She can tell Matt’s nervous, the way he stops just near where he usually stands for practice, the way his hands wring around the top of his cane, the way his jaw ticks.

“Well hey, Murdock,” she says, stilling her hands.

His head tilts towards her. Jessica’s willing to bet that behind those glasses are bruises from lack of sleep. “Hey, Jess,” he says, sounding small. He’s shaved. He’s wearing a hoodie. Sheepishness has sunken into every ounce of his posture.

Ah, fuck. It’s too damn hard to be mad at him. It’s like trying to be mad at Trish, really – which is. Weird. But. Whatever.

“We’re not going to talk about Friday,” Luke says, pulling his bass over his shoulders. “We played, we could do better. That’s all we need to say.”

Jessica doesn’t roll her eyes. There’s something firm and warm in his voice that makes her want to stretch out like a cat and wrap around his words. That’s the thing about him; he’s resolute and solid. Trish is bright, like summer heat; but Luke is the reliable steadiness of the sunrise. No matter what, he’s the same, every day. She knows his next words like they’d been burned above her heart.

“Forward,” Luke says, reverent and serious, “always.”

Jess watches Matt, knuckles curling white around his cane. He swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing at his throat. He works his jaw and looks a bit like he’s drowning. “I, uh – thanks, guys,” he says, halting and slow. Oh god, this is painful; bad.

She catches Danny’s gaze and stares. _Come on, dumb kid._ Danny furrows his brow in reply. Jessica jerks her head towards the box on Danny’s keyboard, where Matt’s in-ear monitors are.

Danny blinks, eyes going wide when it dawns on him that he’s got to actually _give them_ to Matt. God, he’s a fucking dumbass. “Oh!” he says, practically jumping across the room. “Matt, the IEMs came in,” he plucks the box up and walks it over to Matt.

Who looks – possibly more sheepish than before. God, he’s really going big on the Catholic guilt thing, isn’t he?

“We decided they should have devil’s horns on them,” Jessica says, deciding to throw him as good a lifeline as she can offer as Danny presses them into Matt’s hands. “Because you’re the worst, after your fall from grace on Friday as the best member of the band. Now you’re behind Danny.”

Luke had said they weren’t talking about it, but the offended squawk Danny makes and the self-deprecating grin that cracks across Matt’s features are worth any ire. Which doesn’t come.

What does happen is that Matt laughs, his head rolling back as his dimples flash, all as Danny says, “I’m not the worst!”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” Jess says. She leans forward in her stool behind her drum kit. “Now are we gonna play or what? I fucking missed you assholes.”

She’s surprised to find that she means it.

 

* * *

 

The Defenders decide to play another show in the middle of May. It happens like this:

“I think we should play another show,” Danny says at practice one afternoon in the second week of May.

It’s hot – the city seems to have gone from winter to summer overnight. Matt’s shirt sticks to his back, damp with sweat between his shoulders. Luke’s windows are thrown wide open and Matt can hear children, out in the street, faint beyond the buzz of a fan that Jessica’s turned on behind her. Harlem is muggy already. Matt doubts the chance of catching a breeze off the Hudson in the Kitchen, but he can dream of it, maybe.

“Really?” he hears himself ask in reply to Danny. He kicks on his pedal. They’re trying out a new song, one that they’ve been slowly, slowly teasing out together. Jessica had caught Matt humming the hook under his breath at the bar last week. She’d badgered him until he’d emailed her the lyrics he’d written. She’d shown Luke and Luke had shown Danny and here they were.

“I think it’s a good idea,” Luke says.

Matt already knows he’s lost the chance to argue otherwise. Luke’s the lynchpin in getting the band to make any decision and he’s the definition of _immovable object_. Matt thinks he could probably out-stubborn a bullet. Which is an admirable trait, except for when it’s not in Matt’s favor.

“Jess?” Matt asks anyway.

“What, you don't want to try out your new super suit?” Jess asks. The monitors, that's what she's been calling his _super suit_. Her drum sticks rattle as she leans them against her snare.

He laughs, ounces of bitterness cracking through it. The thread of guilt he feels, still, about their first show is curved into his forsaken bone marrow. It moves through his bloodstream, circling up through his veins and arteries, rushing around the tight trap of memories inside his chest.  He's going to play this show. Because he's outvoted. And —

Because he's trying. For Claire, for Foggy. Because Danny spent the money and the time. And because Jessica doesn't try to convince him. Because Luke’s already agreed and Matt finds, for some terrifying and inexplicable reason, that he trusts his judgment call on this.

“Okay, okay,” he says, defeated, shaking his head with the last vestiges of his laugh.

They all go to the bar, later that night. Even Claire, who worked a double shift in the ambulance today and should be at home, _asleep_ is there, her foot pressing against Matt’s under the table. She's in her familiar spot at the head of the table, her chair pulled close to Matt’s edge of the booth.

“You're sure about it?” Colleen asks, setting down her drink. “Not that I don't believe in you, because I do –”

“We’re good,” Danny says, over confident and easy. Matt can smell the weed on him, but it's faint - less oppressive than it can be, only a slightly too-sweet scent on the edge of his senses. “Super good.”

Matt can feel Foggy fidgeting next to him. He'd been - Foggy, about his scheming with Danny. When Matt had asked him about it, he'd sighed in exasperation. _You know I want you to be happy, right?_ he'd asked. It shut Matt up quick.

He doesn't like fighting with Foggy and will do anything to keep that from happening. Foggy's his constant. Without that… without _him_ Matt's afraid of where he'd be.

“Danny’s not wrong, you know,” Luke says, steady and reassuring. “Things have been good in the last month.”

Claire’s calf presses against Matt’s. She's warm.

“Jess said you guys are writing new stuff?” Trish says. Her voice is a gentle alto. It's the voice Matt recognizes from social workers, special education teachers, and public defense attorneys. Gentle, but he can hear the quest for an answer, too. It still makes him bristle, despite his trust in Jessica.

“Well, someone didn't mention that he's a fucking _lyricist_ either,” Jess says, throwing him under the bus. Matt, whose glasses are off and tucked into his breast pocket, rolls his eyes. “Oh, don't,” Jess says in reply, before Matt can get a word in.

“Really?” Colleen asks. She sounds young - younger than Danny, almost. But Matt hasn't asked. Danny’s twenty-two, not going to college as a _statement on the futility of an overpriced piece of paper_. He knows Colleen doesn't drink, though.

“It's all the prayers,” Matt deflects, joking, waving his hand before taking another sip of his beer. “It's like poetic verse, but - you know, free.”

“I don't really _do_ organized religion,” Danny starts. Claire's chair creaks as she leans back in it. Matt can hear her shift and cross her arms. “… but that's a cool way of thinking about it,” he finishes, sounding subdued.

Foggy doesn't say anything, which is why he's Matt’s best friend. “Anyone else need another round?” Foggy asks, shifting gears.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jess says, tapping her empty glass to the table. “Grab a bottle? I'll cover it.”

“Rounds for everyone?” Foggy nudges Matt’s side, who grabs his cane and slides out of the booth to allow Foggy out.

“Sure, why the hell not,” Jess returns. The table hums their agreement.

Even Claire, who’s been sipping club soda and lemon gives an affirmative. “I'll grab glasses,” she says, pushing out her chair. It squeaks against the floor. She touches Matt’s elbow, a brief slip of her fingers over where he's rolled his sleeves up, before following Foggy over to the bar.

Matt doesn't say a goddamn word to the beat of silence at the table as he sits back down. He doesn't need another round of _Matt, what is going_ on _with you and Claire?_ But luckily, he’s spared by Luke asking Trish about her new intern on her podcast.

“She's a good kid,” Trish says. “Fresh out of UVM, so you know - she's enthusiastic.” She hums, finishing whatever's left of her drink. The glass makes a hollow noise as it's set back onto the table. “Actually, maybe we can send her to your show.”

“How would you cover a show on a podcast?” Matt asks before he can think better of it, defensiveness raking up his spine.

“Record a few clips, talk about new and upcoming bands on the scene, that sort of thing,” Trish explains, easy. “Do it in a larger section, so it's not just a spotlight on you guys.” _To take the pressure off_ lays unsaid, but Matt appreciates it regardless. He's not sure how he feels about it, but - it's Trish, which means Jess will want to do it and that means Luke will support it.

“That would be so cool, Trish,” Danny says, bright and eager. And there's the last piece – Danny’ll love the chance for press, for cool factor. A podcast feature.

Matt is outvoted again. And that's. Okay. Because they're – friends. And you make sacrifices for friends.

“Alright,” Foggy calls as he and Claire return. Matt can hear the familiar, easy smile in his voice and he wants to reach out and hold onto it. “I got a very expensive bottle because I'm not paying.” Jess groans. “Who's ready to get this started?”

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later, Matt’s rocking on the balls of his feet while Jess snaps at Danny for a new auxiliary cable on the stage pressed into the back of The Chaste. It feels eerie, to be here again. Luke’s moving an amp entirely by himself and Matt feels – stupidly useless.

He folds over the loop of leather on the end of his cane, twisting it around his fingers over and over until they go numb. It’s rare, usually, for him to feel so utterly debilitated by his blindness. But being unable to help his bandmates make the final finishing touches on their set-up before they play – including his own – is a painful reminder of his own limitations.

The box in the back pocket of his jeans, the one with his monitors tucked inside, feels heavy.

Matt drags his thumb over the wrapped leather handle of his cane. The bar is already starting to grow loud. If he tries to focus, using every ounce of his willpower, he can hear Foggy at the bar, giving Colleen the butcher story. But it’s drowned out almost as soon as he hears it, the band they’re opening for is taking shots nearby.

Matt closes his eyes and tries his best to breathe, to trap down the desperate feeling building in his chest. _St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle…_

“You doing okay?” Claire asks, easy, gentle. Her fingers brush over his elbow, alerting Matt to her proximity – as if the rush of lemongrass and mint in his nose didn’t give her away immediately, making something loose and warm twine its way around the base of Matt’s spine. “Not gonna freak out on me again?” He can hear the way her smile tilts her words, up, up.

The sound makes the corners of his own mouth quirk up. “I’m okay,” he says, only lying by half.

“Yeah, ‘cause you have a great track record with answering _that_ question honestly,” Claire returns, teasing, gentle.

Matt chuckles, dry. The barb is gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt, but something twists in his chest regardless. “Well,” he returns, “I’m not running away, so.”

“I’d trip you, if you tried,” she says. She sways, her shoulder pressing against his. She’s warm, wearing short sleeves. Her skin is soft against Matt’s.

He feels a flush crawl up his neck. Matt’s about to reply with – God, something stupid, probably – when a familiar lurching gait stops him short.

“You guys ready to go?” Frank asks, gruff. Matt can hear his breathing, audible – raspy. His voice sounds like he’s been screaming. It makes the hair on the back of Matt’s neck rise.

Claire pats his arm before he can even reply. “Hell yes they are,” she says. Her hands close around his cane and Matt’s passing it off to her before he can even think about it. He hears the familiar snap as she folds it. “I’m going to hold onto this, okay?”

He nods. “I’ll be right over here,” Claire continues, her voice steady, even and gentle enough to make something warm and soft unfurl behind his sternum. “I’m off tonight, so I’m not going anywhere.”

“I –” he swallows around the weight in his throat. “Thanks, Claire.”

She leans in; the scent of her familiar perfume close, close. Matt can feel her breath on his cheek and for a moment, his own is trapped in his chest. She presses her mouth to the side of his jaw, gone as quick as she’d slipped in. “You got this,” she says, quiet, as she slips back to a comfortable – normal, sane, acceptable – distance.

Her hand pats his arm again, open-palmed, as she walks past. “They’re all yours, Frank,” she says as she ducks to the side of the stage.

Frank grunts in acknowledgement. Matt’s not sure if he’s supposed to say something. He turns his head towards the stage, desperate for a lifeline, but Danny’s talking a mile a minute about – _the atmosphere of the set_ – so Matt’s fucked, basically.

“You got those monitors?” Frank asks then, sudden enough that Matt’s answering nod is a rough jerk.

“Yeah,” he says, pulling the case from his pocket. He thumbs it open and pulls them out.

“And you know how to turn ‘em on?” Frank continues, level, that heavy inhale acting as punctuation.

Matt thumbs over the controls. “Yep,” he returns. They’d gone over this an hour ago. It’s only the fresh batch of nerves that wash over his muscles that keeps him from snapping about it.

“Good.” Frank is quiet for a moment and then Matt hears him move forward. “Alright, Defenders, you’re on in five – so, get ready.”

Matt forces himself up and onto the stage, muttering a thanks to Frank as he shuffles back towards the soundboard, to where Matt knows Claire’s waiting.

“Hey, Murdock,” Jess says. “Here.” He reaches out and finds her holding out his guitar. “You ready for this?”

He forces himself to nod. “Yeah, absolutely.” Jessica’s replying scoff isn’t comforting, but it doesn’t make him feel any worse. Matt’s not sure what to do with that. Instead, he busies himself with pulling his guitar over his shoulders.

“Danny just flashed you a thumbs up,” Jessica says, her voice moving back as she settles behind her drum kit.

Matt’s laughing, shaking his head as Danny manages a sheepish apology. He reaches for his mic stand, running his fingers over it, allowing himself to try to map it out. It’s loud, in front of the mic. His stomach jerks.

He hears the platform of the stage shift and creak as Luke moves next to him. “It’s just a set,” he says, as unwavering as ever. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Matt snorts. “Yeah, well.” Shrugging, he tucks one monitor into his ear.

“Nope,” Luke says, and Matt thinks he can hear the hint of a smile in his voice, rare, usually reserved only for Jessica. “Forward,” he reminds Matt, “Always.”

He gives Luke a tight nod. It’s an admirable sentiment but as the noise grows and a familiar sense of panic rushes in, it’s hard for Matt to believe in. Instead, he crosses himself, offers up a quick, desperate _if I have any favors left_ to Mary, and tucks his other monitor in.

And it’s –

Quiet.

Matt feels his whole body still; his heart slows.

“Okay Murdock. This one’s on you,” Jessica says, clear, perfect, easy, before counting off. The tap of her drumsticks together is clear, perfect staccato.

Matt’s fingers find the notes. He can hear them all, Jessica, laying heavy on her drums as she rolls into the first song. Matt finds himself chasing after her. Luke’s bass is a strong, steady heartbeat next to him. Danny’s setting up his loops, weaving in and out of the spaces between Matt’s rhythm, Luke’s bass, the crash of Jessica’s drum.

It’s – _fun_.

He finds himself grinning wide as he leans into the mic, his mouth pressing against cold metal, Jessica’s weight switching, Luke’s fingers slowing over his bass. There’s the space for him, and he leans into it, taking it.

“ _First write down all of your fears_.” His mouth moves against the microphone and he doesn’t think about the last time he did this or the time before that. All that matters is playing now, here, hitting the notes and making sound.

Matt’s singing – he’s playing, and the world isn’t burning down.

He’d forgotten just how good that feels.

The set blurs – Matt leaning into Luke during the bridge of a song, Danny setting his keyboard to loop and plucking his mic out of the stand to climb onto Jessica’s kick drum, shouting in time with Matt as they fall through the chorus of a song: “ _What sings to you when you disconnect_?”

When it’s over, Luke pulls his arm over Matt’s shoulder and Danny rushes to his other side. He’s sweat-slick and Matt realizes he’s taken off his shirt, at some point, and it draws a laugh out of him, even as they’re saying their _thank yous_ and _enjoy the next sets_.

Matt tugs out his monitors when Frank appears in his ear, telling him he’s switching the sound system. It’s jarring to hear his voice so close and the shock of that alone is enough to have Matt pulling them out and letting them hang over his ears.

“Shit Murdock, that wasn’t half bad,” Jessica says when he does, elbowing his side. “Hand me that.” He presses his guitar into her outstretched hand, feeling heat rush up his neck.

“Matt, bro,” Danny says, appearing at his side. “That was… fucking _lit_ , man!”

Before Matt has a chance to process what that even _means_ another familiar voice calls, the stage creaking with the weight of Foggy as he leans against it. “Matt! Holy shit, you’re a rockstar dude!”

He laughs as Foggy’s hand finds his, helping him down from the stage. He can smell beer on Foggy’s breath and he’s warm against Matt. “I’m sure that’s overstating it,” he says, shaking his head.

“No way dude, people were _really_ into it,” Foggy says animatedly, “there was moshing! I haven’t seen moshing since college.”

“Don’t tell me you were in the pit,” Matt clucks.

“What, me? No I’d die,” Foggy replies. “I’m too soft and adorable! Do you want some beer?”

“Shit, _yes_ ,” Jessica says from behind Matt. There’s a soft _thud_ as she drops down off the stage. “Luke and Danny are loading our shit, so we’re on beer duty.” She claps her hand down over Matt’s shoulder. Her weight sways against his.

“Claire!” Foggy shouts over the din, “we’re going on a beer run! Want anything?”

Matt’s head turns at the sound of the call, wondering where she is, something in his chest twisting at the realization that she’s not with Foggy, not here as he steps off the stage.

It doesn’t take long for her to find her way to them through the crowd. “I’m alright,” she says to Foggy, before Matt’s cane, folded and familiar, is pressed into his hand. “Think you might want this, though.”

Matt flashes her a grin. “Thanks for keeping any eye on it.”

“Good show,” she returns. There’s slight tilt to her voice, one that makes Matt’s ears prick because he knows she’s got something to add. But she doesn’t say anything else.

“Thanks,” he says, just as Jessica says, “Good? We fucking killed it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did any one spot the karen reference? it's small, but she's on her way i promise. this is a segue into letting all y'all frank fans know that once this fic finishes, i'll be working on a companion frank/karen piece - so if you're not seeing enough of them, i promise it's for a reason! 
> 
> hugest of shoutouts to the best team around!! to the beta squad [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com) and [sam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist). y'all are absolutely the best, really. shoutouts to [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) for cheerleading, teen wolf livetweets, and introducing the [~~Best~~ / Worst Image](https://68.media.tumblr.com/f3327066dbc4f961fad1b50b2527410d/tumblr_om7briCdGM1uqe55wo1_540.gif) into my life. 
> 
> and to everyone who has read, commented, bookmarked, kudos'd…… y'all are fucking amazing and rad and i'm glad you're here. as always, you can come yell at me on [tumblr](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com).


	5. say i never try, but you know i do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all!! sorry this update took a bit longer than i expected - but hey, it's 2k longer than the last one, so? win-lose? 
> 
> this chapter has everything: (kind of) lawyer matt! jessica making good choices and simaltenously bad choices! girls kissing girls! danny rand making an ass of himself! foggy becomes a merch girl! matt's a dummy about claire! yay! 
> 
> musical note: the chapter title is from pup's "can't win". 
> 
> content warnings: alcoholism, mentions of domestic violence, possibly light ableism. (please let me know if i'm fucking anything up y'all. these are serious issues and i want to do it right.)

It’s three weeks after their second show when Matt’s phone wakes him up in the middle of the night. _Jessica, Jessica_. He fumbles, tapping at his screen, _Jessi–_

“Hello?” Matt says, thick with sleep. What the fuck is Jessica doing?

“Ah, fuck, thank god you picked up, uh – hey. It’s me,” she sounds – rough, voice scratchy and thin. “You’re like, a lawyer, right?”

“Paralegal,” he says, automatic. He sits up and feels worry start to crawl into his stomach. “Jessica? What’s going on?”

“I, ahh, might’ve fucked up,” she says. He can practically hear her shifting her weight nervously through the phone. “Can you come down to -” she cuts herself off and Matt can hear that she’s taken the receiver away from her mouth,  “where the hell am I?”

Jesus, this doesn't sound good. Matt is already getting out of bed, tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder. Clint whines, nails clicking on the floor as he follows Matt across his room. He tugs out a shirt, slacks, a tie. He can hear conversation on the other end of the line, Jessica’s voice and others, muffled.

“The precinct on 11th?”

Matt pauses and runs his fingers over his watch. “I'll be there in half an hour,” he says. “Jess, what -”

“Look,” she snaps, “I gotta go, but I - thanks.”

The line clicks and the call ends. Matt slips his phone into his pocket and tugs on his jacket.

He supposes he's lucky she's somewhere he knows, but Matt’s mind is spinning, trying to understand why Jessica called _him_ and not Luke, not Trish. The scenarios his brain supplies only make him walk faster, sweeping his cane across the sidewalks.

Unfortunately for Matt, the precinct she's in is seared into his memory forever.

It's changed, since he was twelve. It's louder, even at three in the morning. There's phones ringing, people walking back and forth, a woman speaking in Spanish to an officer at the desk who clearly doesn't care.

“Look, Ms. Cardenas, I don't know how much we can help you –”

“Matt Murdock?” a voice calls, to his left. He turns his head toward the sound, confusion making his fingers tighten on his cane as he furrows his brow. Footsteps, light, athletic.

“Brett Mahoney,” the voice says, closer now. “Foggy’s old friend.”

Matt nods, placing the name and the voice. They played baseball together in high school. “Yes, sorry, it's been awhile,” he says, forcing himself to smile, to be polite. He slips into the person that Foggy claims will be the best trial attorney this city’s ever seen. He holds out a hand to shake.

Brett shakes it. His grip is firm. “It's all good,” Mahoney says, good natured, “it _is_ late for a high school reunion, though. What can I do for you, Matt?”

“I got a call from Jessica Jones,” he says, forcing ease and confidence into his voice. “But she was cut off before she could explain to me what's going on. I'm a paralegal with Landman and Zack.” Not a lie, exactly.

“Jessica Jones?” Brett echoes. The audible wince in his tone is loud and clear.

“Yes,” Matt says, before there's a chance for any sort of comment. His hackles raise at Brett’s tone, defensive. “Has she been charged with anything?”

This draws a sort of chuckle out of him. “Drunk and disorderly with the landlord pushing for destruction of property and aggravated assault.”

Jesus, Jess.

“What's a firm like Landman and Zack doing with someone like Jessica Jones?” he asks, shifting his weight.

Matt’s hands tighten around his cane. “That’d be between my employers and Ms. Jones,” he returns, level. He clenches his jaw. He doesn't like the tone Mahoney’s using.

“Fair enough,” he says. “You know we can't give you privileges with her.” So he's going to try to stonewall,to get Matt to give up and go home because he’s not a _real_ lawyer.

That's fine, Matt can handle it, he thinks. He forces the corners of his mouth up, into the shadow of a smile, disparaging. “But you can let me post bail for her and then we can clean this up in court. If I recall, that's how the legal system serves us.”

Mahoney is quiet for a beat. Matt’s heart slams in his chest. He feels his blood rushing in his ears.

“She's got priors,” Mahoney says. “The arresting officer thinks we should keep her here for the night. Let her dry out.”

Matt laughs, cracking his best _go to hell_ grin. “So that she can wake up hungover and antagonizing your entire precinct tomorrow morning?” He leans on his cane. “C’mon, we both know Ms. Jones, Brett, nobody wants that.”

He sighs, defeated. Matt has him. An inch of relief pushes down his spine. “You got a check then?”

When they bring Jessica out, she's shouting. “Jesus, get your hands off, I can walk. I told you I'm _not_ that drunk, Christ.” He hears a bit of a shuffle. Jessica’s boots heavy on the linoleum floor.

“Fuck, I hate cuffs,” she says when she walks up to Matt. “Thanks for coming,” she says, lower, just above a whisper.

“Sign your paperwork,” he says, jerking his head to where he thinks the desk is. Sounds like it's there - from the clacking of a keyboard, the phone ringing, the shuffle of paper.

Matt doesn't say anything until they're out of the precinct, aware of his smoke-and-mirrors act. A wrong word and it could get messy, so he'd rather play it safe. He wraps his hand around Jessica’s elbow as they walk out, letting her lead. Her footfalls are angry, purposeful. She doesn't run, though Matt can feel the tension in her arm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jessica shouts when they're walking down the block, away from the precinct. “You got a cigarette?” she asks.

Matt shakes his head. “No.” If it were a normal day, one where they're just walking to the park with Clint because Jessica likes to hang out with Matt when Trish is recording, he'd make a crack about not being able to see to light them. But it's not.

“So,” he says finally, trying to find the right words. “I'll take you back to your place?”

“Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be allowed back,” Jessica says. She doesn't sound entirely upset about it.

Matt frowns, however. “You gonna tell me why you called me? Trish could've gotten a real lawyer.”

“Would you have called Claire?” she returns.

Matt’s frown deepens. “No, I would have called Foggy.” Clare wouldn't need to be involved – there's no _reason_ for Matt to have called Claire in that kind of situation. Claire wouldn't need to know.

And besides, Foggy, like Matt, knows how to bother a cop.

“Yep,” Jessica says. Matt doesn't follow. Besides - it's not about him. At all.

“Did you have any plans on telling me what happened?” he asks as they turn down another block. They're heading to his apartment, he realizes. Though he'd never offered, he's leading her there anyway.

Jessica sighs. Her leather jacket creaks as she shifts, runs a hand through her hair. “I could hear him - the super -” she takes another shuddering breath. “He was beating on his girlfriend. I just - wanted it to stop.”

Matt feels a chill run down his spine. He knows the feeling. She could have called the police. She didn't, though. “And you were drunk?”

“A bit.” Which means a lot drunk, Matt translates. He's known her for six months and spent most of that time in the bar with her. It's not hard to figure out. “But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have done something.”

Matt sighs. “I know, Jess.”

 

* * *

 

Jessica Jones wakes up and feels like a goddamn building has fallen on her. Through the thick, throbbing pain in her head and the dryness of her throat, she realizes she doesn't know where the fuck she is.

She's in different clothes than she remembers. A t-shirt, a little too long, pulled out in the collar. Boxer shorts. Her bare legs are twisted in a blanket so soft she's certain it's more expensive than her entire wardrobe.

_What the fuck?_

There's a beat of panic, when she thinks that maybe she's slept with someone she doesn't know. She hasn't done that since she started seeing Luke two years ago. It's part of their - agreement. Luke’s okay with Trish, but stepping out with someone she's not committed to is different. The rush of guilt is so heavy she thinks she's going to throw up.

No, she's definitely going to throw up.

She pushes up, the blanket falling to the floor. The room tilts dramatically when she gets up. She realizes she knows exactly where she is when she's in the middle of vomiting into Matt Murdock’s kitchen sink.

Ah, fuck.

She leans against the counter, doubling over so her forehead presses against the cool metal of the sink. Shit, shit, _SHIT_. She'd fucked up, last night. Her own memories hit her in a rush. She hears the horrible, broken sound that the super’s girlfriend made and vomits into the sink again.

“Jessica?” Matt asks, quiet, from across the loft.

She forces herself to stand up and turn - slowly - to face Matt. He's moving across the apartment. He looks sleepy, his hair rucked up, a cowlick appearing at the crown of his head. He's wearing a t-shirt, worn and comfortable looking gray joggers, thick socks. _Shit._

He pauses by the couch and Jessica realizes he'd left water and aspirin for her, as he picks them up off the trunk he's got in front of his couch.

“Hey,” she forces herself to say, because he can't see her and it's probably fucking shitty to just stare.

“Hey,” Matt echoes, crossing the rest of the loft to offer her the water and the aspirin. “How are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” she snaps, irritable as she snatches the aspirin from his hand and dumps four tablets into her palm. She tosses them back, taking the water from Matt’s hand. It’s a balm on her dry throat.

Matt’s laugh is soft, quiet. It’s a modicum of relief. She doesn’t mean to be like this, she swears to herself. She’s just – fucked.

She sets down the water and takes a breath. “Sorry,” she says, trying to reign in her bitterness. “I didn’t mean to fuck up your night.”

Matt shrugs at that, shoving his hands into the pockets of his joggers. He looks small like this, unguarded, as he leans against the counter. “So you’re probably going to want to get a real lawyer,” he says instead of trying to shove off her apology. Which she appreciates.

“Yeah, figures,” she replies, takes another drink.

“The cops said the landlord wanted to press more charges?” He’s gentle when he asks. She wants to be mad about that, about the way he’s speaking softly to her, but her head hurts too much to care.

“Ugh, god, of course they’d call him,” she mutters. He’s had it out for her ever since she broke her door. And when she started running a PI firm in his own building. Not that he’d had any proof.

Shit, shit, _fuckshitdamn_ , fucking mother _fucker_ , Jess has got to find a new fucking apartment. Her current building is a shithole anyway. Trish has tried to get her to move into her place, in Chelsea, but -

Jess needs her own place. She clearly can’t bring this shit to Trish’s door. It’s too. Much. Trish already goes out on her fucking neck for Jess anyway. It’s only through Trish that Jess had gotten in touch with Hogarth, who’ll probably have a whole fucking lot to say about _this_ rather spectacular fuck-up of a situation anyway. She should call her -

“Jessica?” Matt says, quiet and gentle. She pulls herself out of her cycling thoughts. His eyes always look wide - it’s their unfocused, pinprick pupils - but it’s the slack in his jaw that makes him look especially young, especially worried.

“Sorry,” she mutters. She’s said that word too much in the last twelve goddamn hours. It makes her feel like she’s been rubbing sandpaper on the inside of her throat.

Matt’s mouth quirks, almost like a smile but – not. “Food?” he asks, suddenly. “I can make a mean omelette.” And _there’s_ the smile, crooked and easy. Jessica wants to laugh at him, tease him for being a dork but she’s hungover and food is probably her best option right now. So.

She shrugs. “You gonna make me cook with you?” That’s what he does, because he’s Matt and he’s weird and a _good samaritan_ or whatever. He’ll bribe Jessica with food and beer, but then he’ll tell her to do something like chop onions or crush garlic. It’s work, hanging out with Matt. But she does it anyway.

He chuckles, shakes his head. “You want to?”

“Fuck no,” she says and sits down on one of the stools at the counter.

Matt busies himself with getting eggs, peppers, cheese. Jessica presses her head against the countertop and tries to stay very still. _Fuck_. She should drink more water, but she wants a goddamn beer. She knows Matt has some in the fridge, has been over enough that she knows exactly where even with her eyes closed.

Which, okay, she knows that Matt’s place is a kingdom of order and pattern for a _reason_ , because that’s how he’s able to make sense of life, but there’s something that feels both fragile and steady about it. That Matt’s apartment is a still, fixed point.

Ugh, fuck.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t mean to move in with Matt, but it happens anyway.

It’s an accident, really, and it’s one that Jess thinks Matt hasn’t even realized has happened yet, when Trish brings it up in mid-June, two weeks after she’d been told in very plain and simple terms that her lease was over.

“I still can’t believe how _nice_ this apartment is,” Trish says, folded into the corner of Matt’s couch, which is folded out now wide enough for Jessica to sleep on with mild comfort. She owes the IKEA people a round, she thinks.

Jess looks up at Trish, her head in her girlfriend’s lap. Trish’s fingers card absently through Jess’ hair. Clint snores, sleeping in one of Matt’s armchairs.

“Yeah, well, it’s nice until you have to sleep under a goddamn LED billboard,” Jess mutters.

Though, if she’s drunk enough, it doesn’t actually matter. So, bonus.

Her thumb swipes over Trish’s knee. Her skin is soft, her summer tan starting to come in, slowly starting to turn her skin to gold. They’re alone; it’s mid-afternoon and Matt’s at work. Jessica is supposed to be working on a case, but it’s more shut than open. All it’ll take is a quick reverse image search to find yet another missing husband’s new family in Tarrytown.

Trish hums, her mouth quirking as she considers. Her lipstick is half kissed off. Jessica thinks about reaching up, wrapping her hand around Trish’s jaw and pulling her down to get rid of the rest. “Blackout curtains?”

Jessica shrugs off the suggestion. Again, whiskey helps. Nightmares, shitty people, or LED billboards: whiskey takes care of it all.  “It’s not really _that_ bad,” she lies. “You know I sleep like shit anyway.” That’s true.

Her girlfriend breathes out and Jess closes her eyes. She doesn’t want to see the familiar way that Trish’s eyes darken, her mouth twitching down for just a beat while she pushes away every single thing Jess has told her to stop bothering with.

She doesn’t want to talk about what happened and she doesn’t want to talk about her parents and she doesn’t want to talk about Trish’s mom and she doesn’t want to fucking hear or say the name _Kilgrave_ ever again. It’s better if she just ignores it.

All of that shit is _over_ , it’s done. She’s put it behind her. It’s so fucking far behind her.

Trish’s fingers ghost down Jessica’s face, featherlight, gentle as they trace her lips. She flicks her tongue out, can taste herself on the pads of Trish’s fingers, just before Trish jerks her fingers away, laughing. “ _Jess._ ”

She reaches up then, her hand curving around Trish’s jaw as she sits up, pulling her close as she presses their mouths together. Jessica pulls Trish’s bottom lip between her own and sighs when Trish parts her lips for her. She curls her tongue against Jessica’s, slow and purposeful.

Jess slides her hand up, into Trish’s hair, thumb resting just under her ear as Trish’s hand spreads against her ribcage.

It’s easy, being with Trish like this. To let the way she drags her tongue against the roof of Trish’s mouth say _I’m sorry_. To hear Trish’s reply ( _I love you, I love you, I love you_ ) spelled out as her hand moves up Jessica’s side, thumb sweeping over the rise of her breast.

They shift again, Jessica moving so that she can straddle Trish, her knees bracketing Trish’s hips. One hand slides up the planes of her stomach, sliding under the soft cotton and lace bralette Trish wears.

Even when their kiss breaks – breathless, gasping – they don’t speak. Jessica ducks her head and lays the flat of her tongue over the sensitive spot just above the hollow of Trish’s throat: _I’m sorry_. _I love you._

Trish arches up against Jessica’s mouth, against her hand, a soft sound escaping her and all it means is _I love you_.

It’s easy, here, to ignore the tight feeling in her chest, the ache in her head, because she gets to choose to feel something else. To feel _Trish_. Trish’s fingers, tightening in her hair as Jessica moves her mouth down, over the bow of her collarbones; Trish’s hips, rolling in a search for relief; Trish’s free hand reaching for Jessica’s hip.

She lifts her arms to let Jessica pull her bra off. It joins the rest of their clothes, in a pile on the floor that’s growing steadily over Jessica’s abandoned boots.

 

* * *

 

“We should record a demo,” Danny says as they’re all sitting in Luke’s living room – not quite practicing, not quite just _hanging out_. Danny decided to buy a looping tool and they’re all taking turns fucking with it.

Matt’s been working on a song, one that Danny wants to back with “just fucking weird shit, man,” and Matt’s more than happy to let him make an ass of himself recording different sounds in Luke’s apartment. Matt is pretty sure that Jessica’s been filming the whole thing on her phone.

But Danny’s suggestion makes Matt stop short. They’ve been _The Defenders_ for six months now. It’s almost July and the heat of the city is oppressive. It needs to rain, desperately. He shifts on the upturned milk crate he’s been sitting on.

“Kid, we’ve played two shows,”  Jessica says then. Matt can hear the soft clink of glass – she’s set down her beer.

“And another next week,” Luke says, coming back from the kitchen. He has water for Matt and a drink for himself; Matt mumbles a thank you when he's handed his drink. The bottle’s cold against his palm.

Jessica sighs. “Don’t you think that’s just a bit… premature?”

“I don’t know,” Matt hears himself saying. It surprises him. How easy it is to consider, despite the familiar feeling of anxiety that curls up from his stomach. “It's not like it would be that difficult.”

(His own voice, his own guitar, still sit out on a bandcamp profile that hasn't been updated in 5 years. He knows, because he's checked. He still has the login; so does she. Neither of them have taken down the music. He doesn't even know what that means.)

Danny presses on, “C’mon Jess, Matt, wouldn't it –” he stops. Matt can hear the click of his jaw. “Wait. What?”

A flush rises to the back of Matt’s neck. “I just – it shouldn't be that hard to do, right?” He shrugs. “I record stuff all the time, like – drafts. Of things.” Which is true. It’s easy enough, to record whatever song he’s working on, than to try to get it written in braille or typed into a computer for reading on his reader.

But, also, he’d recorded an album on a laptop when he was twenty. There was also that.

“I – yeah,” Danny says after a beat. Matt can hear the surprise in his voice. It makes Danny speak slower, a little more purposeful. “I have a microphone rig, for my laptop, so we could just… record it here.”

“Are you guys serious?” Jessica returns. Matt can hear the frown in her voice; the disbelief. Matt fiddles with the fabric of his shorts.

“What could it hurt?” Luke asks, easy as ever. “Could even be fun.”

“God,” Jessica sighs. She groans in defeat. “Remember when we were going to quit?” There’s a soft thud, echoed by her drum. Matt thinks she might’ve hit her head against it.

Danny laughs. It’s not long before Matt’s laughing as well, feeling impossibly warm as he does. He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling, his chest so, so full, the only way to release it is to join in.

Luke’s voice is steady, but bright. Matt’s known him long enough to know what it sounds like when Luke smiles as he speaks: “That was never the plan.”

Practice ends not long after everyone’s conceded to record, that they’ll take the weekend to do it. Danny’s excitement is nearly overwhelming. He gestures wildly enough to knock a bottle off Luke’s kitchen table with an, _oh no, my cold brew._

Luke offers to walk Matt back to the C line, after they've cleaned up and Matt’s tucked his guitar into its case. Jess’s meeting Trish for dinner so Matt’s going to have the loft to himself again tonight.

He's been letting Jessica crash on his couch. After the incident with her super, her landlord had terminated her lease, citing that running a business out of the apartment was a violation of her lease. Matt thinks she's lucky that one of her clients’ firms is representing her. She's one of those terrifying business lawyers that Foggy dreams of being and grumbles about two drinks in at the bar.

He also thinks that maybe there's something wrong that he doesn't know how to handle or fix.

“How’s Jess doing?” Luke asks as they make their way up the block, out of earshot from where Jessica walks off with Trish. He sounds worried, concern making his voice soft and tight.

Matt’s chest hurts at the sound of it. “I don't know, really,” he admits. She's just been - Jessica. Angry. Drinking his beer. Impossibly funny. Good with his dog. He sighs. “She tell you what happened?”

“That her super was beating on his girl? Yeah,” Luke sighs. It's jarring - to hear him sound so upset. He's unfazeable, usually. It makes all the worry in Matt turn up to eleven. “She's been through a lot,” Luke adds, after a pause.

“I know about her family, but…”

“There's always more,” Luke finishes in a sort of resigned way.

Matt breathes out in recognition. “Always is.”

“It was good of you,” he says, purposeful. “To take her in. You didn't have to do that.”

It's easy for Matt to shake his head in reply. “She'd do it for us.” He knows she would. It's strange, Matt thinks, to know someone new so well. He doesn't - this kind of thing doesn't happen to him. Or, well, he considers, thinking about another girl who he’d thought he'd known like the back of his hand. At least - it doesn't usually end well for him. But. This feels different.

He doesn't know how to explain that, though. And there's enough wariness in his bones for a voice to whisper in the back of his head that he's being foolish.

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Claire's tells it to shut the fuck up.

“Yeah, still.” Luke pauses. It's so clear, when anyone talks to Luke just how intentional his words are. It makes Matt quiet, all the more focused. “Not a lot of people would.”

It feels – too strong, and Matt shudders under the strange weight of recognition. Jess is his friend. Of course he'd do this for her. And besides - he knows his apartment is huge. He knows he's not exactly… going to use the space, the way the realtor had suggested. He doesn't have people over. He doesn't actually _do_ anything much, really. He goes to work. He goes to church. To the bar with Foggy. And now he does this, too.

“My priest would have my head if I didn't,” he deflects, half-laughing.

Luke hums. There's a long pause. They make their way up two blocks, Matt’s hair beginning to dampen with sweat from the muggy heat. He needs to shave, he thinks. After a few days, his normal stubble has been starting to make him sweat more. Summer is, arguably, the worst season.

“Has she been… drinking, at your place?” Luke asks finally. There's a strange cadence to his words. Nervousness.

Matt’s brow furrows. “It's Jessica.” Which means yes. She's been drinking his beer and then some. He thinks Jessica believes Matt doesn't know about the bottles of whiskey in the recycling. But he can smell them, hear them jangle when he takes the bin out.

“Yeah,” Luke agrees. Matt can hear the slow, heavy breath he takes. “I'm worried about her, Matt.”

It pulls a sigh out of him. Because, yeah, Matt’s worried too. He's been worried since she called him at three am from the precinct. And maybe he should have been worried earlier, if he had, maybe –

“Luke –”

He cuts Matt off. “But she's Jessica. There's not a single person on this Earth that can tell her what to do.”

Matt exhales, sighing in reply. Luke’s not wrong, but it doesn’t mean that Matt has to like it. As Luke stops them, waiting for a light his fingers twist on the handle of his cane and he wishes he had his rosary; sterling silver, from his father’s baptism. He wants – needs – help with this. With Jessica, even if she doesn’t want it. “Luke, if there’s anything…”

“I’ll let you know, Matt,” he says, as the light changes and Matt taps out with his cane. “Just – try to keep her out of trouble. If you can.”

Matt nods. He will, of course. But – he’s not entirely sure that they can keep trouble from finding Jessica without her help.

 

* * *

 

Jessica picks at the knot of auxiliary cords and cables, trying to tug one loose. She’s sitting on the stage at The Chaste, _trying_ to be helpful and give the boys a hand setting up, but.

“Fucking shitting Christ, Danny, how does this happen every goddamn time?” she groans, wriggling her finger through the massive knot of cables. “You’re an _adult_.” How is it that their goddamn _keyboardist_ can’t manage to keep his own shit from infecting everyone else’s with its chaos?

Danny, of course, shrugs. “The will of the universe,” he says. He’s sitting on the damn stage with his legs crossed, shoes off. _Meditating_. God, Jessica would kill him if she wasn’t so sure it would make Matt and Luke extremely disappointed in her. Stupid fucking _boys_.

“Yeah, well the will of the universe will place my fist up your _ass_ if you’re not too careful,” Jessica mutters, sighing in victory as the tangle of cords unfurls and she’s able to pull Luke’s hot pink auxiliary cord from the mess.

Danny laughs in reply, because he’s some kind of idiot. He pushes up off the floor. “Thanks, Jess,” he says, plucking up his own cords. He’s still barefoot. His stupid canvas slippers ( _one to a child in need with every purchase!_ ) sit under his keyboard. She watches him start to set up his things.

They’re alone, at least for now. Luke’s working on unloading her drum kit; Matt’s on his way over, having stopped to feed Clint before hitting the bar.

“You guys playing nice?” Claire asks, walking over. She’s wearing her _I know Danny’s being annoying_ face, the one where her eyebrow raises toward Jessica with only mild accusation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica mutters, pushing up off the stage and walking over to Luke’s bass head. She busies her hands with setting up his things; it’s the trade they make, when she doesn’t want to deal with Simpson, who’s The Chaste’s ‘bouncer’ on busy nights. Mostly, he’s just an asshole who hits on Trish even though she’s _clearly_ not interested.

“Good,” Claire says, just as Luke walks in with Jessica’s snare in his arms. “Hey there Power Man.” It’s an old joke, one that Jessica knows maybe half the story of – something about a band Luke was in when they were in college.

“Hey Claire,” he says, easy, as he sets the snare down next to her kick drum, her hihats. “You seen Matt?”

“Here,” he calls, the door swinging closed behind him. His friend Foggy’s with him, still in his lawyer clothes, Batman tie and all. Honestly, Jessica has no idea how they’ve managed to walk in this heat. At least Matt’s dressed somewhat sensibly, jeans and t-shirt, compared to Foggy’s suit and tie.

Matt’s got a box tucked under one arm as he walks over, cane leading. “I stopped at the printer’s,” he explains, “the download cards are ready.”

“Shit, really?” Danny exclaims, jumping off the stage like a gangling, over-excited toddler. His blonde curls flop as he does.

The download cards had been Trish’s idea: business cards, really, but with a download code to their demo on the bandcamp page Luke had set up. Danny had jumped on the idea like a rabid dog, sending them near-constant email updates on the design process. The email thread itself was actually enjoyable, if only because Matt’s constant reply was _Unsubscribe._

Matt’s laughing as Danny makes grabby hands at the box, dimples flashing. Jessica’s eyes slide over to Claire. They roll away when she sees the stupidly fond look that’s taken over her friend’s face; her mouth twisted up in a soft smile, brown eyes warm. God, they’re ridiculous. She’s got to get them drunk sometime soon, maybe finally get them to just… stop being stupid like a fucking Disney channel romance.

“Jess! Luke! Look at these!” Danny says, the box now in his hands as he thumbs through them.

She rolls her eyes again. “Danny, c’mon, we’ve got a show in like, an hour and half.” They’re the first band of three – part of The Chaste’s weirdly extra-busy summer scheduling. Claire tells them it’ll only get busier in the fall, when the city swells with students again.

“It’s alright, my dude,” Foggy adds to Danny. He’s grinning, good-natured as always. He pats his shoulder in a way Jess _knows_ is half patronizing. She loves it. His nails are painted a navy blue. “Me and Colleen are gonna be great merch girls.”

Danny’s girlfriend laughs at that. She presses a kiss to his cheek. “Foggy and I got this, yeah?” she says. “Go make sure they’re gonna want the cards.”

Jessica rolls her eyes at how sickly-sweet it is. God, twenty-two year olds. They’ll get bitter soon enough. She hopes. For her sake.

She turns away, going to adjust the tension on her hihats. She hears Matt say, “Thanks, Fog,” and then pull himself up on the stage. Luke hands him his guitar, and he starts to check the tuning. Danny’s quick to follow Matt up.

“You all clear?” Frank Castle asks, once they’ve all managed to get their instruments ready. His stony face is as impossible to read as ever, but he’s got a rather spectacular bruise blossoming around his eye and across his cheekbone.

She doesn’t ask about it – everyone who’s played music in the kitchen in the last ten years knows that his band (the appropriately named Leatherneck) is half an excuse to fuck shit up and kick the shit out of somebody. Jessica respects that. She’s needed that outlet a couple times.

“All clear,” Matt echoes, tucking his monitors into his ears. The small flash of red where the devil’s horn is painted onto the side of one disappears under his hair, auburn and curling just over the tops of his ears.

They run through the soundcheck quickly. She’s the last to go and rolls through her drums, waiting for Frank’s thumbs up as she presses her foot against the pedal of her kick drum again and again.

Jessica’s impressed that Danny only makes an ass of himself in front of Frank for about five minutes, as opposed to the usual fifteen. (She’s never, ever going to tell him that Frank’s an old hand at this and that the guy could probably care less. Jess likes watching Frank grunt in reply to Danny’s comments about his minimoog’s capabilities with increasing annoyance far, far too much.)

The bar is filling rapidly and her shirt’s sticking to her back already; the A.C. had been a blessing until the crowd had started to show. Jessica pulls her hair back as she says, “You assholes ready for this?”

“Are you?” Matt returns, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a grin, his fingers not quite pulling at his guitar strings, but she can recognize the nervous energy in his hands. But the barb is friendly, more at ease than Jess has seen him on stage.

Luke meets her eye as Matt turns to face the mic. His smile is a careful, familiar quirk of his mouth, coupled with a gentle arching of his eyebrows. She returns the look and shifts on her stool. “You really have to ask?” she replies to Matt, before counting them off.

It’s easy to launch into their first song, even when Jessica finds herself surprised. (She’s a _good_ drummer, at least Danny had enough sense to recognize that by sound.) The crowd is grinning and moving despite the heat as Matt leans into the microphone.

She thinks he’d probably try to melt into the floor if she said anything, but – after their last show, after Danny’s great-but-also-fucking-dickish gift of the monitors, he’s been _different_. It’s strange – almost like seeing an entirely different Matt.

A Matt that can, during a live fucking set, find the space between Luke’s easy, steady bass line, to needle away a solo that makes his friend, by the side of the stage with their download cards, call out a, “ _Yeah, Matt!_ ”

She rolls her eyes as Danny loops the notes – because of course he’d brought the stupid looping machine with him, of course. When the breakdown of the song hits, Danny flings open the buttons of his shirt. Jessica uses the last bar of it to reach into her bucket with her spare set of sticks and throw one at him as he goes to take off the wrinkled oxford.

They end on the cover Matt had auditioned with – it’s a new addition to the set, insisted upon by Danny and one they’re still working out. But Jess knows it well enough and the crowd doesn’t even seem to care or notice that they’re running a recording of the second guitar (Matt had laid it down as a test for their demo set up, which is how it’s found its way into the set).

They’re more excited to scream _I’m not o-fucking-kay!_ with Matt.

Jessica’s hair is stringy with sweat and slipping from her bun and by the time they finish even her fucking _drum pads_ are covered in her sweat. But she doesn’t… actually care. Because Luke is smiling and Matt is grinning as Danny practically vaults over his minimoog to pull Matt into a hug. He laughs and stumbles, his glasses sliding down his nose as the kid collides with him.

“Hey, hey, watch the guitarist,” Jessica says, pushing up from her stool.

“Jess!” Danny says, grinning wildly as he unwraps his arms from around Matt. He smells like his fucking grape flavored vape juice when he inches closer.

Jessica groans and holds her arms out in self-defense. “No! No, I am _not_ hugging you, Jesus, _Danny_.”

She can hear Matt and Luke’s laughter, louder than anything else in the bar.

 

* * *

 

“Hey there St. Matthew,” Claire says, her voice low and warm in the summer air.

Matt turns his head towards the sound. He’s outside the bar with Foggy, trying to cool off. The show’s almost over, the third and final band of the night playing something loud and whaling. Jessica and Trish have already wandered off, Luke citing work in the morning. Matt thinks Danny might be buying weed, but he doesn’t want to know.

“Hey,” he breathes in reply. The corners of his mouth tug up.

Foggy shifts next to him. “Uh, I think, uh, Marci is calling me,” he says, pushing up. The lie is so thin in his voice that Matt laughs, unable to help himself. He’s loose with three beers and _happy_ , the adrenaline from their set still running through him.

He can hear Foggy pretending to say _hello?_ into his phone as he walks away and Matt laughs again, feeling light in his chest as Claire sits on the bench next to him. Her shoulder presses into his.

“That was… quite a show in there,” she says, smile inching into her voice.

He feels heat crawl up his neck instantly. “Thanks,” he replies.

Claire’s knee knocks against his. “I told you it wouldn’t be so bad, in the end.” She’s teasing, gentle and leaning her weight into his as she does, her mouth close to his neck. Matt can smell her – beer from working the bar, summer sweat, and the ever-present note of her lemongrass and mint perfume. Matt inhales deeply.

“You were right,” he concedes, joking and laughing.

“Usually am,” Claire says. He can hear the smile in her voice, but his fingers twitch with the urge to map it. To find the bow of her lips with the pads of his fingers and trace how they curve up, where the lines of her face lead.

She shifts a little, still pressing close, and her hair moves against his shoulder. “You should listen to me more often.”

That draws another quiet laugh from him. “Yeah?” he asks, grinning. “Like when?”

“Mmh,” she breathes and he can hear her rubbing her hands up her thighs. “Like when I tell you that you don’t know how to make a cup of coffee.”

He laughs again; harder. It’s an old joke. She’s as particular about her coffee as Matt is about just nearly everything else.

Matt exhales, shifting against the bench. He leans back, comfortable, his chest lighter than it’s felt in a long time. Claire doesn’t move away. The city hums around them; the bar is loud at their backs and the door creaks as it opens.

“Hey, Frank,” Claire says, sitting up a little, just as Matt hears a familiar uneven gait.

“Claire,” Frank says, gruff. There’s something funny about the way he speaks – then a sharp click, and then Matt can smell tobacco smoke. “Red.”

Matt frowns, the smell of smoke tacky in his nostrils, his throat. “That’s not –”

“You played a good show, Red,” Frank continues on, low and rough.

Matt frowns in surprise. “I – thank you.” He’d gotten the impression that Frank doesn’t actually like him _or_ his band. He always sounds angry, low, speaking in short, clipped sentences. This is. Unexpected.

Frank grunts around his cigarette in reply. “I’ve got a show I’m puttin’ together at the end of the month. My band, a couple others at The Safehouse. Defenders should join in.”

His mouth clicks shut. Frank’s – band. Show. At The Safehouse – which is. Matt hasn’t played there. He’s heard of it, but it’s opened in the last five years, some sort of DIY space. But. _Frank_ asking him about playing a show.

Matt recovers, just barely long enough for a normal response time. “I, uh – I’ll talk to… everyone about it.”

Frank grunts again. “Good,” he says, firm. “Be seeing ya, then.” Another pause. “Claire.” And then the shuffle-step of his walk, feet dragging across the sidewalk. The door creaks as it opens again.

“Don’t act so surprised,” Claire says, her tone light. She nudges Matt’s knee with her own again. “You have a _good_ _band_ , Matt.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that so much as…” Matt pauses, trying to search for the words.

“Frank?” she laughs and Matt can feel her hair move as she shakes her head. “He’s not so bad.” Her hand wraps over his, warm. Her thumb presses against his pulse point. “You should do it, by the way,” she adds, gentle. “Play The Safehouse.”

“Holy shit, was that the sound guy?” Foggy says, apparently returned from his ‘call’. “Did he just ask you to play a _show_ with him?”

“Did you eavesdrop on the _whole_ conversation?” Matt asks, though it falls on deaf ears.

“Dude,” Foggy continues, emphatic, “his entire face was busted up and he looked better than I’ve ever looked in my _life_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the beta squad came through in a hardcore way with this one. [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/), thank you for continuing to fuel all the good frank castle content. [sam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist), thanks for letting me yell at you about scene changes as soon as you wake up in the morning. y'all are too good for me, etc, etc. [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) you continue to be a most excellent cheerleader and source of charlie cox gifs.
> 
> & OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS! y'all are sweetest readers around and i can't thank you enough from the bottom of my heart for your kudos, comments, _recs on twitter_ (holy shit??) and general kindness. 
> 
> as always yell at me on [tumblr](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com). (and enjoy this [dumb picspam](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/post/164777513715/hold-the-mic-to-this-pillar-of-salt-or-the-one).)


	6. call me a safe bet (i'm betting i'm not)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which: i introduce characters that may or may not actually exist in the mcu (comic fans, have fun with this), a Kiss happens, clothes sharing, and shit gets real for everyone. this chapter's long. hold onto your butts.
> 
> musical notes: unnamed songs referenced/quotes are: "i'm not okay (i promise)" by my chemical romance; "catch me if you can" by leathermouth, "leviathan" by leathermouth. obviously i don't own those lyrics.
> 
> content warnings: (brief) sensory overload, minor ableism, references to abuse, brief scenes of violence. as usual, if something's fucked up or if you need another content warning, let me know.

It’s a Saturday night, muggy and humid as the rest of June has been. The past two weeks have brought on a wave of heat in the city and Matt’s nowhere near prepared for the crowd inside The Safehouse.

The venue turns out to be warehouse on the docks and by the time Matt and Jessica arrive, they’re already weaving through a thicket of bodies as Jessica searches for someone to tell them where to go. Luke and Danny are on their way with the van, but Matt and Jess elected to walk from their apartment.

As they move through the space, Matt feels anxiety crawl through him at the prospect of playing in an unfamiliar place. The Chaste is home, with its familiar voices and familiar layout. This is all new and maybe even worse, they don’t know the people they’re playing with.

Jess slows them to a stop. Someone’s playing Glassjaw over the P.A. and Jessica shouts to be heard over it, “Hey! We’re part of The Defenders. Where are we supposed to be?”

“Oh! Hey, Frank told me about you guys,” a new voice says, shouting back. “Micro. I’m in Leatherneck.”  Matt tilts his head, trying to find the source of it. The footfalls that approach are steady, quick. Matt can smell coffee, sharp and dark, under the sticky smell of sweat that permeates the entire space.

“Hi,” Jessica says, wariness in her voice. “You gonna tell us where to go?” she adds, before Matt’s able to get a word in. She’s on edge, has been for a few days. Matt hasn’t been able to figure out why. He twists the leather loop on the end of his cane around his fingers.

“Yeah, sure, sure,” Micro says, voice cracking thinly around the word. “C’mon, the other guys are through here.”

Jessica shifts her hand on Matt’s elbow and leads him around, his cane tapping out as they weave their way through the space.

“I looked up your demo,” their guide continues, “it’s pretty good. Should be cool to play with you guys tonight. I think Rachel had the other guys in your band over… yeah.” There’s a pause. “Here. I found your other band members!”

“There’s a step,” Jessica says, low, just as Matt’s cane makes contact with it. He gives her a tiny nod and they walk into the space Micro’s led them to.

“We’re gonna run sound check for you guys in about fifteen, okay?” Micro says. “Stage is just through here.”

“Thanks,” Jessica says, just as Luke says, more level, “Thanks, man.”

“Not a man! But you’re welcome,” Micro replies. “See you in a few.”

Matt tries to swallow the ugly, nervous twist in his gut as he wraps his hand around Jessica’s elbow when Micro’s voice – a reedy tenor, one that’s distinct enough to recognize over the din – calls them up for soundcheck. He’s played in spaces he doesn’t know before. Union Pool, once, which had been strange and cacophonic experience. This should be fine, he shouldn't be this worried.

And yet, Matt feels the gnaw of anxiety as they step onto the low stage; it's barely off the floor and creaks as their weight settles.

“Well that’s inspiring,” Jessica says, pressing Matt’s guitar into his hand.

Danny exhales, the putridly sweet scent of his vape pen making Matt’s nose twitch in recoil. “This is cool, though,” he says, the amp behind him humming when he sets up the minimoog.

“If you like OSHA violations,” Jessica returns, dry. Matt barks a laugh, his head rolling back.

“I've played worse,” Luke says, apropos of nothing. Matt can almost hear a shrug punctuating his words, they're so nonchalant.

There's a beat of quiet, then Danny, shock and awe imbued in his tone, asks, “Who _are_ you?”

It pulls a low rumbling laugh from Luke, warmth leaching into Matt’s chest when he and Jess join in. “You guys ready for this?” he asks when the laughter has died down.

Matt makes one last adjustment to his guitar before giving Luke a nod and a _yes_. He tucks his monitors into his ears and flashes a thumbs up out in front of him, hoping that whoever’s running the soundboard will see the gesture.

“Alright, we’re good,” Jessica calls from behind him and Matt feels a rush of warmth reach up the back of his neck, thankful. He ducks his head, just barely able to keep the smile he feels tugging on his features in check.

“Start with you, Red,” Frank’s voice, thick like silt cracks in Matt’s ear.

He sucks in a breath in surprise, unable to help himself from calling out, brow furrowing, “Frank?”

Frank huffs. “You gonna stand around all day, Red?”

Matt forces himself through the soundcheck, aware of how strange it is – doing the same thing that he always does, Frank’s grunt in his ear when Matt tells him the levels are good. The same grunt he gives Jessica, Danny, and Luke when they run through theirs. It gives Matt an odd sense of familiarity, even in this strange place.

Their set is a sweaty, _loud_ thing. Matt can feel sweat from his hair dripping down over his fingers as he bends over his guitar, Danny singing the hook of one of his own songs. It’s a good reprieve and allows Matt to focus on the feeling of steel under his fingers.

He’s vaguely, in a far away sense, aware of the crowd. But their sound is muted by the monitors, falling away as he leans back in, tilting his head up to join Danny on the chorus, “ _We're burning our own tonight, we're single sparks when sorrows come_.”

Space on the stage is limited, different than the stage at The Chaste, with another drum kit behind Jessica’s for the next band. The closeness between them – Luke, who presses against Matt’s back during the breakdown in _Mana_ ; Danny, who snakes his way up to the front of the stage to press himself against Matt’s mic to shout the chorus of _Nightmare_ before climbing back on top of Jessica’s kick drum  – makes Matt feel lit up with energy.

He feels very much alive.

Like the week before, at The Chaste, he’s able to tell that the energy in the room spikes as they launch into their last song. Matt can actually feel the way the warehouse shakes in his knees as he growls into the microphone, “ _For the last time, take a good hard look!_ ”

And that’s – it’s not his song, sure, but that’s something else. It makes something in Matt’s chest fill and burst, just as Danny shouts, “Guitar!”

He’s laughing as his fingers fly over his pickups.

When Matt pulls his monitors out at the end of their set, the noise is staggering. Danny’s arm clamps down on his shoulder as he leans in – smelling more of sweat than his god awful vape – and shouts, “Fucking _lit_ , Matt!”

He’s shirtless again, Matt realizes, laughing Danny off. He hears a gentle _thud_ as Danny cries, “What the hell, Jess?!” She’s thrown his shirt at him.

“Nobody wants to see your shitty tattoo Danny,” she replies, though Matt can hear the smirk in her voice.

“It’s a sacred dragon –”

“Danny,”  Luke says, “what did Colleen tell you about cultures that aren’t our own?”

Jessica’s hand wraps around Matt’s arm. “C’mon Murdock, these assholes can deal with our shit.”

Matt laughs as they step off the stage, Danny still squawking as Luke chastises him. Jessica presses his cane, folded, into his hand. “Thanks,” he says, bodies jostling against him. The crowd’s thick, here, even as they duck out through the makeshift green room Micro had brought them through. His hands work quickly to snap out his cane, eager for the comfort of being able to use it as they make their way through the warehouse.

He can feel Jessica shrug. “Don’t mention it.” She doesn’t shift away when he places his hand back on her arm. He’s thankful for that, too.

She keeps leading him through the crowd. Matt tries not to listen when his cane taps against someone’s leg or foot, tries to avoid the _what the –_ that follows. He tries to let the sounds of the space wash over him.

“Where are we going?” Matt asks, half laughing when Jessica mutters a _move, asshole_.

“Bar,” she says, simple.

Matt forces himself to stay quiet, not sure what he’s supposed to say to that. He’s been – trying (and maybe failing) to honor his promise to Luke. But, if he stops buying beer, then Jessica just buys more; if he doesn’t go out to the bar, then Jessica goes out.

“Jess!” Trish’s voice calls, bright. “And Matt, hey!” Matt turns his head and grins in the direction of her voice, letting go of Jessica’s arm when Trish says, closer now, her floral scent curling towards them, “That was so _good_!”

Her arms fling around her girlfriend and Matt ducks his head as he hears the gentle noise of mouths pressing together. His free hand reaches out, searching, searching until he finds the bartop, surprised at the cool metal under his touch.

“Hey, you must be Matt, right?” a feminine voice says, bright, almost too gentle for the loud buzz of the air around them.

Matt’s brow folds in confusion at the unfamiliar voice, turning his head to find the source, just as Trish says, “Yes, of course.” She touches Matt’s arm, brief, “Matt, this is Karen Page, my intern.”

“Oh,” he breathes, forcing a smile to his face. “Hi,” he manages, sticking his hand out for her.

“Hi,” she replies, light. Her hand is warm when it wraps around his, soft to the touch but a firm grip. “You had a great show.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking his hand back, setting it against the bar once more.

He can hear Jessica ordering whiskey on his other side. “Three,” she barks. “Wait – Karen?”

“Oh,” he hears her shift next to him. “Uh, sure.” Karen’s still shifting. Matt can smell violets. It’s such a bright, light scent amidst the nearly oppressive scent of sweat and stale beer.

“Four, then,” Jessica says, just as the bartender starts to set the first of her drinks on the counter. She slides one over, the glass pressing against the back of Matt’s knuckles.

“Thanks,” Karen says, when the bartender sets the last whiskey down.

Jessica’s glass hits the bar, sounding hollow and empty. “Don’t mention it.”

Matt’s thumb sweeps over the curve of his glass. He doesn’t know how to talk to a new person, at least not here, where the music playing over the PA is loud enough to force him to strain to hear everything else.

“Did you get what you needed – for your piece?” Matt asks, after a beat. He can hear Jess filling Trish in on Danny’s latest antics, complaining loudly about the stress his weight puts on her kick drum when he stands on it.

“Yeah!” Karen replies, soft. “I, uhm, was at The Chaste a few months ago, for you guys.” There’s a beat, Matt can hear the sound of whiskey moving in her glass. “You were very good. Then. And tonight.”

He breathes out half a laugh, feeling sheepish at the compliment. “Thanks,” he says, finally taking a drink of his whiskey. It’s warm down his throat, settling somewhere in the middle of his chest.

She doesn’t say anything else, for a beat that lasts too long. “When you played,” Karen starts, “I didn’t know you were, ah –”

There it is. Matt laughs, tilting his head towards her. “Blind?” His fingers tighten around his cane, he leans it against his side.

“Uh, yeah,” she admits, exhaling loudly. She sounds more relaxed, now that he’s said the b-word. “I thought the glasses were a sartorial choice.”

That makes Matt laugh again, remember with a sudden sharpness, his audition. It feels longer than seven months ago. Hell, he’s _living_ with Jess now. “You wouldn’t be the first,” Matt says, offering Karen a smile.

“Matt!” Foggy’s voice calls, then, clear and familiar over the din of The Safehouse. Matt raises his head towards the sound, relieved. He’s better at this, when Foggy is around, a buffer between Matt and the rest of the world.

He turns, grinning. “Hey, Foggy,” Matt says, just as Foggy’s arm comes around him. He smells like beer and the crowd and he’s warm against Matt.

“Oh!” Foggy says when he pulls back, realizing Karen’s most likely watching them. “Hey. I’m Foggy.”

“Karen,” she replies and Matt can feel them reaching around him, to shake hands. Matt busies himself with drinking the rest of his whiskey. “You’re friends with Matt?”

“The very best,” Foggy replies, sounding all kinds of warm and proud. The tone his voice takes makes Matt’s insides curl. “You’re the reporter. From the show at The Chaste! That was a good feature.”

Matt frowns in surprise. “I didn’t know you listened to  –”

“Of course I did, you idiot, your band was on it,” Foggy continues, barrelling forward in the conversation. “Trish said you’re from Vermont? How do you like New York?”

“Thank you,” Karen says, warm and sincere. “Uh, yeah, I graduated from UVM last June. It’s…” she pauses, clearly thinking over her words. If he focuses, Matt can hear her swirling her glass, the whiskey sloshing against the glass. “Nice, so far. I like the Kitchen. But it can be… hard to meet people, you know?”

“Well now you know me and Matt!” Foggy says, immediate and Matt can hear the smile in his voice already. “So that’s good, right?”

She laughs at that, the sound gentle and quiet. “Yeah,” she says, shifting again.

Then the sharp sound of a guitar turning on cracks over the crowd. There’s a loud roar that builds and all conversation dies as a drum beat begins – faster, heavier and harder than even Jessica’s.

The growl that follows is nothing short of _feral_. Matt feels Karen stiffen beside him. In the same breath as the voice begins to snarl, the rest of the band’s instruments crash over Matt and the rest of the warehouse. The sound is oppressive, heavy, and Matt can feel every note in his bones.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Foggy shouts, barely audible over the din – the guitar, furious; the bass, a heavy sonic weight; the drums, a thrashing cacophony, and that _voice_ , spitting. “Is that _Frank_?”

“ _The N.Y.P.D. ain’t got shit on me_ ,” the voice howls, “ _I'll carve them up with a flick of my wrist_.”

Matt can barely hear anything, other than the fury there; the sheer fucking weight of the band’s sound nearly crushes him to the floor. If he tries to focus, he can hear the pushing and shoving of bodies, the slamming of feet against the floor. But even that is far away.

The lyrics are barely comprehensible. Matt’s entire body aches with the fury in the sound.

“ _No rest, no rest, no rest, no_ fucking arrests,” the voice growls – Frank, Matt realizes, _this_ is why his voice is a rasp, hoarse. Because this is his band.

He barely manages to hear Karen whisper next to him, “Holy shit.”

The entire warehouse seems to shake with the force of the screams that come in together – crowd and band at once. “ _I'll paint this town blood red tonight! Erase this scum from my fucking sight!_ ”

Matt’s hand tightens around the edge of the bar. The sound is overwhelming – even when the band drops out as Frank snarls, _kill the fucking lights_.

He’s almost dizzy when the song ends, the crowd still shouting in the space between songs. He’s breathing hard.

“Hey,” Foggy says, sudden, low and clear. His hand touches Matt’s elbow. “You okay?”

Matt forces himself to swallow. The drums kick in – a guitar screams over a dropped note – Frank’s voice twists, _moaning_.

“I, uh, I think I’m gonna go outside,” he shouts back.

“Yeah, buddy, I’ll come with you,” Foggy says, his hand tightening on Matt’s arm. He leans in close – Matt focuses on the scent of Foggy, hemp soap and familiar, – to yell to Karen. “Hey! We’re gonna head out, but Trish has my number. If you ever want to know someone in the city.”

“Oh!” Karen says, sounding far away even as she shouts back. “Okay. Thanks.”

As Foggy leads him out, Matt’s careful to tap Jessica’s side before they walk away. “See you at home?” he shouts, but doesn’t catch her reply as Leatherneck’s playing speeds up, louder and somehow all the more furious.

Even outside, Matt’s ears still ring with the sound of the set, the street filling with the only-barely muffled sound of Leatherneck.

“Wow,” Foggy says, starting to lead Matt down the sidewalk. “That was – I didn’t know someone could look _good_ screaming like that.”

It’s just _Foggy_ enough of a thing to say that it pulls Matt back, a little closer to the ground. He laughs. “Did he look good?” He leans into Foggy a little as they walk, teasing.

“Very,” Foggy says, sincere. “It’s honestly upsetting.”

The city air is humid, as swampy as it has been all month. Matt’s shirt – already sweat-damp from his own set – sticks to his back almost as soon as they step outside. Foggy groans. “Ugh, I am not _made_ for this kind of weather. I’m going to melt into soup!”

Matt laughs, breathing in the city. Even despite the heavy sound that had set like a stone against Matt’s chest, he feels _good_. He played a good set and now he and Foggy are starting to wander back towards Matt’s apartment. This is familiar; reminding him of nights in college walking across campus in tispy, swerving paths back to their dorm room.

“Hey strangers,” Claire calls. Her voice is warm and familiar and perfectly low. Matt turns towards it.

“Claire!” Foggy calls, bright, slurry and a little drunk. “My favorite night nurse.” She laughs at that, her footsteps coming close.

“Hey yourself,” Matt returns when she comes to a stop. The corner of his mouth turns up in a grin. “You on your way back from work?”

Claire laughs then, bright like summer afternoons with heat behind the laugh. “Jerk,” she says. Matt can hear the smile in her voice. “Like I’d miss your set.”

He feels the back of his neck heat with a flush. “Yeah?”

“I _was_ going to tell you it was a good set, but if you’re gonna be an ass…”

Matt laughs. “Thanks for coming out, Claire,” he says, soft.

“Anytime,” she replies, soft and automatic. There’s a beat, then: “Where are you guys headed?” she asks, just a bit louder.

Foggy chuckles, letting go of Matt’s arm. “Home, for me,” he says, easy. “Matt?”

The exit is there for him. Matt can still feel his whiskey in his chest, warm, sure. “I could walk for a little longer,” he says, low.

Claire shifts, her hand brushing against the back of his own. “I’ll walk with you,” she replies without missing a beat.

Foggy touches Matt’s elbow. “See you Monday?”

Matt nods, offering Foggy a smile and a silent _thank you_. “Monday,” he confirms.

And then Foggy’s off, his footsteps moving away from where Matt and Claire still stand, the backs of their hands brushing together.

“You ready?” Claire asks, gentle.

Though he’s not sure what he’s ready _for_ , Matt replies, instant, “Yeah.”

Claire’s hand slips through his, fingers curling the spaces between his own. Her hand is soft, warm in his. She swings their hands a little, as they start down the street in silence. Matt thinks about the feeling of her palm against his his, the way her fingertips press in the hollows between his knuckles.

“You didn’t have to request the night off just to see us,” Matt says after they’ve crossed two blocks. They’re heading towards his loft, but walking slowly, wandering. He knows Claire normally works Saturday nights at the bar.

“Yeah I did,” she replies, easy. Her shoulder bumps his as they stop at an intersection. He taps his cane out, to map where the curb is. Her words settle in Matt’s chest, in the space between two ribs, warm. His thumb sweeps against the back of her hand.

She speaks again when they start walking. “I’m glad you played,” she says.

“You were right,” Matt concedes without a fight, happy to give this to her, to smile at her. “About playing the show.”

“You wanna say that again?” she asks, joy in every word. She’s still leaning in close, their frames pressed together as they walk, her hand tightly in his. Matt can smell her, lemongrass, mint, and summer sweat. No trace of sharp anesthetic or antibacterial soap burning the back of his throat. Just _Claire_.

He laughs in reply to her question. “You were right,” he repeats.

“Bet your ass I was,” Claire says, full of mirth. “Corner,” she adds, low, gentle. They come to a stop, a handful of cars rumbling by. Someone far down the block calls for a taxi. Claire shifts her weight and exhales. “You think it’s ever going to rain?”

Matt sighs, letting himself breathe in. The air is sticky, like swimming through thick, murky water. But if he breathes in deep enough, drawing in the city, he can smell the faint, earthy note that only curls through the steel and concrete of the Kitchen before summer rain.

“It will,” he says, with a small smile. “Soon, I think.”

Claire’s quiet for a beat, before she gives his hand a light tug. They cross the street. There’s a roll of thunder and Claire breathes out, a gentle laugh. “It’s amazing how you do that.”

Matt shrugs, a bit sheepish. Since his accident he’s always been – sharper, with his remaining senses. When he’d explained it to Foggy – in college, after several horrible days of Foggy eating the same Chinese food leftovers that smelled like something literally expired in their fridge – he’d laughed and said, _holy shit, it’s like you have superpowers!_ But it, really, really isn’t like that.

It’s just that, as Stick had explained it, his body was compensating for what he’d lost. ( _And you could pick up a lot more if you allowed it to, Matty. Stop fighting it – there’s a whole world out there._ )

“It’s not, really,” Matt says, shaking his head. “It’s just… opening yourself up to the city, listening to what it tells you.”

Claire laughs again, soft, “You know I have no idea what you’re saying, right?”

Matt laughs back, stopping on the sidewalk. “Here,” he says, giving a soft pull on her hand. She stops next to him, sososo close. “Let me show you.”

He drops his hand from hers and allows himself to trace his knuckles up her arm. Her skin is bare, soft against his. Despite the heat, he can feel gooseflesh, the downy baby hairs of her arm raising under his touch. Her breath is barely audible. He drags his knuckles up, up, her elbow and over the curve of her shoulder.

Claire’s neck jumps at his touch. He can feel her pull in a breath, her heart rate spike. Matt’s own heart slams in his chest at that, realizing exactly what’s happening; what he’s doing. He can’t breathe, but he can’t stop, either.

And then up over the corner of her jaw. Which is sharp and square and it takes all of Matt’s will to keep from changing his direction, from spreading his palm wide and cupping her jaw in his hand to tilt her head up and –

His knuckles brush over her cheekbones. They’re high, elegant under his touch, and her face is soft, soft and smooth and perfect.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers, even as he spreads his palm over her eyes, thumb brushing out over the width of her nose, to map her face. He can feel her eyelashes, tickling the skin of his palm as she closes them.

“What now?” she asks, barely above a whisper. Her breath is cool against his skin. (She’s _so_ close.)

“Listen,” he whispers – gentler, far gentler than he’s ever spoken in his life. “What do you hear?”

She’s quiet for a beat and Matt can’t even listen with her, try to find the sounds on the street, the hum of the city. All he can do is listen to the pull of her breath, try to memorize the feeling of her skin against his, the way her entire body moves when she breathes.

“I hear you,” she whispers, then, “your breathing; the cars on the street – music, but not… not The Safehouse. Someone’s playing the bachata.”

Matt laughs, breathless and nervous. “Good,” he hears himself whisper back. “What do you smell?”

Claire’s reply is a laugh, equally breathless and soft enough to make Matt’s chest feel tight. “Well you smell like shit,” she teases and Matt feels himself flush. “But… exhaust… gross city smell, and –” she gasps.

The skies open up. Rain falls on them, wet and lukewarm as it rolls down the back of Matt’s neck, over his face. He can feel it rolling down Claire’s forehead, over his hand. They both break into laughter again, louder now.

“That,” Claire replies. Matt can guess she’s grinning, even as the world around them erupts into sound, the pitter-patter of rain pulling over his ears.

Her hand wraps around his wrist, warm and slick with water. She pulls his hand away from her face, slowly. Matt’s throat tightens, for a brief moment afraid that she’s going to break their contact completely.

Instead, Claire leans in, her breath warm across Matt’s face. Her chest presses against his as she leans up, up. Matt has never felt more aware of his body and another’s.

Her mouth is wet with rain when it closes over his. She pulls his bottom lip between his own and Matt can’t think, can’t breathe. He can only process _this_ : the impossibly soft feeling of Claire’s mouth against his own. The strange, slightly tart taste of rain on her lips and underneath that, mint and the taste of _Claire_.

She pulls his hand to her jaw and Matt’s sliding his hand around it in an instant, reaching up to push his fingers into her hair. But first, the pads of his finger slide over stubble, fuzzy and soft. He laughs against Claire’s mouth in surprise. “What’s this?” he asks, unable to help himself. His fingers quirk over the shaved hair, stroking up and down. It’s so soft, much softer than when Matt shaves his face.

“My haircut,” Claire replies, her hand around his wrist guiding his hand over the side of her face. He traces the line of where her head is shaved – two inches or so before his fingers slide into her hair, which is long and silky despite the rain, around his fingers.

“It’s nice,” he says, laughing. Matt tilts her head up again, leaning in closer still to kiss her again. She’s grinning when his mouth presses against hers. His tongue darts out, dragging against the seam of her lips and Claire opens up for him, letting him curl his tongue against her own. Her mouth is velveteen and when her tongue moves against his it’s like rubbing plush fabric against the grain. Matt hums into the kiss. His fingertips press into the bone at the base of her skull, bringing their bodies close.

They’re both gasping raggedly when the kiss breaks. Matt’s shirt is soaked through, his jeans, too. He presses his forehead to Claire’s.

His heart pounds with the fury of hope, light filling his chest. He feels weightless. “Let me buy you dinner?” he asks, finally, finally.

“Yes,” Claire replies. Matt doesn’t have to hear her grin, because he feels it when she noses at the side of his face. “I deserve a good meal after five years.”

He laughs, all of the light in his chest leaking out into the sound. “Sorry,” he mumbles against her cheek. (She’s so _soft_.)

“Well, you keep up the good work and I think I’ll get over it,” she says, pressing her hand against his chest.

She shifts then, and presses a brief, quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before settling back down on the balls of her feet. Claire pulls his hand back into hers. “I’ll walk you home?” she asks, kind, and Matt can hear the same light he feels in his chest in her voice. “I’ll even point out my favorite restaurant when we pass it.”

“You’d better lead the way then,” Matt says, grinning harder than he has in years – maybe his entire life. Claire swings their hands as they walk, the rain falling all around them.

 

* * *

  

“You’re kidding,” Foggy says over lunch. They’re in their closet – it’s too small, too jammed with boxes and boxes of paperwork to call it an office – sharing a large plate of dim sum at their shared desk. He’s still chewing when he continues, “You and Claire are _finally_ dating?”

Matt laughs. “I thought you were convinced that we were secretly dating and just pretending not to to fuck with you, personally.”

“God, no, that was me trying to use _The Secret_ on you,” Foggy replies, reaching over to steal Matt’s coffee. He doesn’t protest, because it’s punctuated by a noise of disgust and, “Jesus, Matt, how do you even _drink_ this?”

“To keep you from stealing my coffee,” Matt says, reaching over as Foggy presses his mug back into his hand. “And we’re not dating,” he adds, “I’m just taking her to dinner.”

“Yeah, man, after you _made out with her in the rain_? How are you a walking romantic comedy? God.” Foggy sighs. “And going out to dinner is the definition of dating.”

Again, Matt laughs, shaking his head. “We’re going to get cuban food. It’s not _black tie._ ” (He’d asked.)

“Whatever, dude,” Foggy says, dismissive, “Date’s a date. Hell, the best dates I’ve had have _no_ dress code.”

Matt snorts. “Eat the rest of your lunch, Fog,” he says, after finishing the last of his own.

Jessica’s not at the loft when he gets home. She keeps odd hours because of her work, he knows, but still – it’s impossible not to feel a pulse of worry when he calls _hello?_ only to have Clint bark in reply, rushing to the door to say hello.

Still, Matt forces himself to remember that Jessica is an _adult_. That despite her phone call to him last month, despite his and Luke’s worry, she’d rather try to handle anything she’s faced with herself. And that, at the very least, Matt can understand.

He busies himself, instead, with trying to get ready for dinner with Claire. He knows objectively that Foggy is right. This is a date.

Matt hasn’t been on a date in five years. His kiss with Claire on Saturday night had been his first non-drunken kiss since the trainwreck of his last relationship.

He’s bricking it, a little.

A lot, maybe, when there’s a steady knocking on his door and Claire’s voice: “You better not stand me up Matt, I’ve –”

He swings open the door, unable to keep the nervous grin off his face when he can smell her – herbal and bright. “Hey, Claire.”

“Hey there,” she says, affectionate. There’s a pause, before she says, apropos of nothing, “Lavender menace, then?”

Matt’s brow furrows in immediate confusion. “I – I’m sorry?”

Claire breathes out, the ghost of a laugh. “Your shirt, Matt,” she says, and then she’s reaching out, tugging on the hem. “It’s purple and it says _lavender menace_.”

It hits him then. He feels a horrible, strong flush rise up his neck, over his cheeks. A nervous laugh tumbles out of his chest. “Oh, Jesus, it’s – it must be Jessica’s.” He’d just done laundry – something that Jessica seems allergic to. Their shirts must have – gotten mixed up.

“Oh my god,” Claire laughs. “You didn’t.”

Matt’s laugh is sheepish as his face heats. “I guess I did,” he says, ducking his head. He forces himself to take a breath and steps back, holding the door wide. “Come in, I can, uh, change.”

“It’s a good color on you,” she says, teasing. Her hand slides over his chest as she walks past. Her other hand moves over Matt’s on the door, closing it behind them. They’re so close – Matt can hear the steady sound of Claire breathing.

He responds with an abortive jerk of his head. “Yeah, well.” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s all Matt can do to keep from dying, right here. He decides to turn, to retreat back to change. Her footfalls are light as she moves into his apartment behind him.

Matt’s fingers trail along the wall of his entry as he walks back into the loft, the touch keeping him in place as he walks.

“Jeans, too, huh?” she asks, low, full of a heat that makes Matt’s stomach drop with embarrassment.

“Oh, fuck,” Matt curses, feeling like it’d be easier if he just fell the floor. Or if Clint ate him. But he’s still snoring in one of the chairs, the traitor. “I’ll – uh –”

“I’m not complaining,” Claire adds, so low Matt feels heat liquify at the base of his spine. “Your ass looks great in them.”

Matt can’t tell if he laughs or chokes in reply. “I – thanks?”

Claire’s footsteps come to a stop. “Oh, yeah,” she says, exhaling loudly. “I can understand how you’re mixing up clothes.”

He hasn’t actually had anyone up since Jess moved in. He’s just been avoiding the space she’s staying in, keeping himself mostly in the kitchen or his room when he’s home.

“Is it that bad?” Matt asks, half-laughing, half-hysterical. He’s trying desperately to keep up with the beats of the conversation. It’s fair to say this is not how he was picturing the night to go and it’s not even six-thirty, according to his watch.

“Well,” Claire says, sighing, “it’s Jessica.”

Matt nods, wincing a little. “That’s what I figured,” he admits, defeated. “I’ll just – be ah. Minute.”

He forces himself to finish crossing the loft, to duck into his bedroom. This time, he avoids the basket of clean clothes at the end of his bed, waiting to be folded, and goes for his wardrobe, reading over the descriptive tags until he finds a plain t-shirt.

He leaves on Jess’s jeans, though.

“Aww,” Claire says when he wanders back into the loft. There’s an audible smile in her voice, teasing and gentle, “I’m kind of missing the lesbian shirt.”

Matt sighs and shakes his head as he walks towards the sound of her voice. His fingers trail over the back of an armchair, old material comfortable under his brief touch. “Weren’t you supposed to take me out to dinner, not sit in my apartment and make fun of me?”

Claire laughs. “Oh _I’m_ taking you to dinner, huh?”

Matt stops when his feet bump hers. “Well, I don’t know how to get there, so.”

“Is that how this is gonna work?” Claire asks, laughing. Matt can hear the smirk. He wants to know what that feels like; if she flashes her teeth, if one corner of her mouth rises higher than the other.

One hand of Claire’s wraps around his hip. Matt’s so aware of the heat of her hand, the way her thumb fiddles with a belt loop. “If you want it to,” he says, unable to keep a breathless laugh from punctuating his words.

“Good,” Claire says, sounding so inviting that Matt doesn’t quite care that he’s lost the thread of the conversation.

He reaches for Claire’s hand, pulling it from his hip to slide his fingers between hers. It sends the same thrill he’d felt on Saturday night running down his spine. They walk out of his apartment together with a goodbye to Clint and a stop to grab Matt’s cane from where it leans against the wall.

The restaurant she takes him to is slow. It’s a Monday night and Matt’s pretty sure when they walk in that they’re the only ones here. It’s an assault on his senses despite the quiet – he can smell spices so strong and bright they’re like a riot of color: lime, garlic, peppers, cumin, _saffron_.

A voice – bright, loud, female, older – calls out, “Claire!” The tone is familiar and fond. Matt inclines his head, curious, about to speak when the voice continues on, in rapid-fire Spanish, “Claire! _Hace tanto tiempo que no has venido. Pensamos que te habías olvidado de nosotros._ ”

There’s the sound of rushing footsteps, and Claire’s laughter, warm like summer sun as the voice continues, “ _¡Tu tío se ha roto de corazón!_ ” His ears perk, as the voice says, _Your uncle_.

Claire’s family, Matt knows, lives in the city; but she doesn’t talk much about them, outside of her mother. (And then, it’s usually to complain about her over-investment in Claire’s life anyway.)

The scent of lemons and pine-sol greet Matt as the woman stops in front of them. “Oh,” she says in a warbling laugh, “ _¿quién es este? ¡Ramón, Claire ha traído a un hombre con ella! Es_ muy _guapo. ¿Claire, su madre lo sabe?_ ”

Matt feels himself flush and ducks his head, trying desperately to hide his laughter. Claire groans. “ _Tía Sofía, calla, el habla español también._ ”

“That’s generous,” Matt says, which only makes Claire – and her aunt – laugh harder. It’s true; he knows enough Spanish to get by, but at the speed her aunt was going, he’d barely been able to make the verbs out.

“ _Tía Sofía_ ,” Claire says, her voice still shot through with faint laughter. “This is Matthew. We go to church together.”

“Oh, my,” Sofía says. Her accent is thickly Cuban, like Claire’s is thickly New York. Matt smiles. “It is _very_ nice to meet a friend of Claire’s from church, Señor Matthew.”

“Just Matt is fine,” he says, still laughing himself. He feels the back of his neck flush. Claire’s hand is still tight in his.

“Well it is still good to see Claire have _nice_ man friends,” she says and Matt can hear the pointedness in her words. It makes him laugh harder. “It is good to meet you, Matthew.” She reaches out then, and squeezes Matt’s bicep.

He smiles, the tips of his ears still hot. “It’s very nice to meet you as well, Señora –”

“Oh, no, no, call me Sofía,” she chides. “Come, come, sit wherever you like. I will get you some drinks.” And then she’s off, her shoes clicking against linoleum.

Matt laughs up at Claire when she leads them to a table. He drops his hand from hers to find the edge of the table and sink into the booth. “You have not nice man friends?” he asks, teasing, as he waits for Claire to sit. He busies his hands with folding his cane and setting it on the edge of the table.

There’s no scrape of the chair across from him being pulled out and for a moment, Matt feels a rise of panic. Until a beat later, when Claire’s laughing and sliding into the booth next to him. It’s unexpected and brings a strange smile to Matt’s face. Her shoulder presses into his and her ankle hooks around his.

“One boyfriend in a punk band and they’ve never forgiven me,” Claire says, laughing.

Matt chuckles. “Hey! I’m in a punk band.”

“And you’ll note I didn’t mention it,” Claire returns, easy. “And I know. You’re in it with my punk ex.”

Matt blinks with surprise. “Luke?”

“Yeah,” she says, easy. “Power Man – Harlem’s best short-lived afro-latina punk band. We were nineteen.”

He laughs at that. “God, that must’ve been something.”

She leans into his shoulder, her chin resting there for a moment. “Oh yeah,” she breathes. Her mouth presses against his shoulder before she sits back up and Matt feels his stomach flip. “But I think The Defenders is a better use of his talents.” Her foot nudges against his ankle – she must’ve worn sandals, her foot’s bare. “But I might be biased, because I’ve had a crush on the singer for a while.”

Matt’s insides twist and he ducks his head, laughing, self-deprecating. “Yeah? I’d be interested in hearing more about that.”

That’s when her aunt returns. “There we go, _cuba libre_ for you both,” Sofía says, friendly. Glass clinks against the tabletop as she sets down their drinks. “Do you know what you’d like to eat?”

“Oh I haven’t –”

Claire stops him, setting her hand over his on the table. “Let’s do _arroz con pollo_ and _yuca con mojo_ ,” she says.

“Oh, _yes_ , okay, _conejito_ ,” Sofía replies, before returning to the kitchen.

“Bunny?” Matt asks. He leans in to speak, whispering into her hair. (Which smells like familiar lemongrass and feels like silk against his nose.)

Claire laughs, flicks her fingers against his wrist. “Shut up,” she says, with absolutely no malice in her words.

 

* * *

 

They don’t kiss over dinner. Instead Claire knocks her ankle against his and feeds him his first bites of her family’s _arroz con pollo_. She makes them eat enough fried plantains, covered with powdered sugar, that Matt feels like he’s going to burst.

They drink _cuba libre_ – which turns out to be a cuban version of rum and coke that’s bitter and tart with a hint of lime and Matt can’t wait to kiss the taste off Claire’s mouth when she walks him home.

Matt feels happy; weightlessly so. Even when they walk out into the summer night air, he doesn’t care that it’s so hot he can literally feel sweat pooling at the small of his back. All that matters is that Claire lets him snake his arm around her waist as they walk up West 44th street and that her head fits perfectly under his chin.

They slow when they walk up his block. Matt feels his pulse quickening as Claire slips from his grasp, instead, lacing her fingers with his own.

And finally, _finally_ , she stretches up, brushing her mouth over his. Matt exhales and drops his hand from hers to grab her waist. His thumb presses into the jut of Claire’s hipbone, tugging her closer. It’s just as her hand comes up to cup his jaw, pulling his head down to deepen the kiss. She shifts and stands on his toes. Matt doesn’t mind.

She makes a delicate, perfect sound as his tongue darts against her closed lips; Matt takes the chance to curve his tongue against hers, to lave it against the roof of her mouth. He takes his time kissing her, to map the space of her mouth with his own. His hand bunches in the fabric of her dress.

“Well, Matt,” she says when the kiss breaks, settling back on the balls of her feet, contentment in every syllable, “I think you did good. Even if it took you a while.”

“Yeah?” Matt breathes in reply. He can’t feel his face, he’s grinning so hard. “I could keep doing good, if you wanted.”

She exhales against his skin. “I think I like waiting for you,” she says, low and flirtatious enough to make heat wrap around Matt’s spine. “So I’m gonna make you work for that.”

Her hand slides down from Matt’s jaw, over his chest. He wonders if she can feel his heart pounding under her palm. “Have a good night, Matt,” she whispers, so tender Matt feels her words against his skin like a caress. She leans in and presses her mouth to the hollow of his throat. It’s such a sudden gesture it pulls all of the air from Matt’s lungs.

“You too, Claire,” he manages, just as she slips away from his touch.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say next; what he’s supposed to do with the impossible fullness in his chest.

“Hey St. Matthew!” Claire calls, just a few feet away. He turns towards the sound. “See you Thursday?”

“Yeah,” he replies, smiling a little wildly. “Yeah, you will.”

Matt’s still beaming when he finishes the trek up the stairs to his loft. He’s trying to process the evening – to understand _how_ this happened, how he became a person who could have a nice date with a girl he likes. How they could talk about her family and how she dated his bandmate when she was nineteen. How that could all be normal and how she could kiss him like he’s the first person she’s ever wanted to kiss.

Which is probably why he doesn’t even realize there’s another voice inside the apartment until the door’s closing behind him.

“ _Jessica_ ,” the voice says, British, clipped and yet imploring, all at once. Matt frowns at the unfamiliarity.

“God,” Jessica says, clearly pissed. “What do you _want_? You called me saying you wanted to _talk_. So I went out to coffee with you and you didn’t say a goddamn _thing_ , Kilgrave. So please. Now that you’ve seen my new place. Talk.”

Matt can feel anxiety mounting inside him. It makes his stomach drop out from under him and reaches up through the empty space in his middle, over his ribs and up his spine, ice cold.

“This is nice, isn’t it? Us. Together,” the voice says, too – _eager._ Jessica scoffs loudly. “Just how it should be.”

For whatever reason, the sound of his voice makes Matt still in the entry. He knows that tone – the pleading, the bargaining. A reminder of – better times. Like a balm over a sore.

“I don’t fucking _think so_ , asshole.”

“Now. _Jessica_ ,” the voice scolds. It’s male, dismissive. Matt can hear the rising edge of irritation. “Is that any way to talk to me?”

“Seeing as you’re a goddamn son of a bitch, yeah, I think it is.”

Matt hears a sharp intake of breath, the start of another _Jessica_ , and he steps into the apartment. “Hey, Jess,” he says, loud.

There’s a beat of silence so tense, Matt thinks his own breathing will shatter the room.

“Who is this, Jessica?” the voice says wickedly. “Don’t tell me you’ve _replaced_ me?”

“God, Kilgrave, are you really that fucking self-involved? This is my –”

But Kilgrave, whoever he is (though Matt’s getting a pretty good idea of who he certainly _was_ to Jess), doesn’t care and continues. “This isn't you, Jessica,” he pleads. “We were happy. Whatever you think I did to hurt you, I'm _sorry_.”

“I think you need to leave,” Matt says, stepping closer. He leaves his cane leaning on the wall. He doesn’t like how this feels, doesn’t like the way that Jessica’s breathing is coming in sharp, painful sounding gasps.

“Kilgrave,” Jess says. “Get out.”

“Oh, everyone, calm down,” Kilgrave barks. Matt frowns. “You're killing the mood. This is between me and Jessica.” His voice is colder now. Angrier. Matt has heard this voice before. He’s heard it in courtrooms. He’s heard it in Stick.

“Come on now, Jessica,” he continues on. “You had to know I’d come back for you –” There’s a scuffle, feet moving on the floor and Jessica’s boots, heavy, knocking against something.

Matt’s swinging before he can even think about it, fist too tight when he does. He can hear Stick scolding him on his form, even as he makes contact with the side of someone’s face – stubble under his knuckles.

Clint starts to bark loudly, as the voice hisses, “ _Jesus Christ_.”

But Matt has made contact. He knows where the asshole is, now, and he hits him again. This time, there’s the crunch of bone under Matt’s fist. The wet, sticky, hot slick of blood. The dog’s barking grows louder, more impassioned. Matt can hear his blood roaring in his ears.

Kilgrave stumbles back and Matt’s already following. But –

Jessica catches his arm. “Matt, _Matt_ , Jesus –”

“ _Get out_ ,” Matt spits. He’s shaking with anger.

There are footsteps scuffling against the floor, Clint barking, the click of his nails on the hardwood, all punctuated with a slam of the door.

“Matt, Jesus, Matt, he’s gone, I’m sorry,” Jessica snaps. She lets go of him and he drops his arm, still shaking.

“Jess,” he says, every single ounce of worry he’s felt in the last month leaking into his voice. “Who was that? I – fuck, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jessica snaps. “I’m –” she cuts herself off and wraps her hands around Matt’s arms, sitting him down on the couch behind him. “I’m going to get us a drink.”

He doesn’t have the heart to try to tell her no. And besides, he thinks he needs it, the way his hands are shaking. His wrist hurts and he pulls his fingers over it. There’s swelling there, already. Shit, he’d fucked up that first punch.

Jessica sits down next to him, the couch creaking and settling with her weight. She presses a bottle into his hand. Matt takes a deep drink from it. Whiskey burns down his throat, cheap and strong. He passes it off to her.

“That… was Kilgrave.” She sighs. He can hear the whiskey slosh in the bottle as she takes another drink.

“I got that much,” he says.

“Yeah, well.” She sighs again; another drink. “He’s my ex. And he’s a shitbag. And I shouldn’t have let him come up. But you know, takes stupid to fall for stupid.”

Matt rests his forearms on his knees. He tries – and fails – to think of what to say. Clint’s paws click on the floor as he walks over, the wet sound of his breathing announcing his arrival as he snuffles at Matt’s leg.

“Yeah, I had my own stupid, for a while,” he breathes back.

“You?” Jessica replies, incredulous. The bottle swirls again as she takes another drink.

“Yeah,” Matt says and holds out his uninjured hand. Jessica passes her whiskey to him. He takes another – longer – drink. “Elektra.”

“Well that’s one hell of a fucking name,” Jessica says, taking back the whiskey.

“Hell of a fucking girl, too,” Matt returns. “I loved her, you know?” His voice is low. Like he doesn’t know he’s speaking. Maybe Matt doesn’t. “But…”

“Yeah,” Jessica echoes. “That doesn’t do shit.”

Matt gives her a nod. He doesn’t want to be thinking about this – especially not when he knows that whatever’s just happened is making Jessica drink more whiskey than she ever has, at least in front of him. He should say – something else. Anything else.

“I didn’t think he’d come back,” Jessica admits. Matt hears the whiskey swirl in the bottle again. “Guess that was fucking stupid.”

“Do you have a restraining order?” Matt asks before he can think better of it.

“No,” she says, immediate. “Trish – well, she wanted me to get one. And I told her I would but… I made it all the way to the precinct and. I just thought – all he ever did was speak to me. He didn’t… not really…”

Something yanks open in Matt’s chest. “I’ll go with you,” he volunteers instantly. “I –” he swallows. “No one should be alone, for that.”

He can hear Jessica breathe. “I –” she pauses. “Thanks, Matt. For – everything.”

Matt shifts his weight, lets his knee bump Jessica’s. “Yeah.”

There’s another swish of the whiskey, long pull on the bottle. When she’s finished, she sets it on the table in front of them. It makes a hollow, empty _thunk_. “Where the hell did you even learn to punch someone?”

She sounds so much more like the Jessica Matt knows. He laughs so hard he feels the cool sting of tears in his eyes. “My dad,” he says, finally, quiet. “He was a boxer.”

“No shit,” she breathes.

“Yeah,” Matt whispers back, nodding. His face is murky in Matt’s memory – which stings, just enough to hurt in the soft parts of his lungs – but Matt will never forget the feeling of his face. The rasp of his voice, that thick Kitchen-Irish accent. “Battlin’ Jack Murdock.”

“He win a lot?”

Matt laughs again. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “He was a fall guy.” There’s a pause, one where Matt aches, before he adds, “He won once.” His voice is still low, reverent. “When it mattered.”

“Well,” Jessica says. He can hear her tugging off her boots. They hit the floor with two heavy thuds. She leans back against the couch. The seat creaks. Matt can smell stale coffee and whiskey – Jessica Jones. Her head drops against his shoulder.

“Next time you say your Hail Marys or whatever, thank him for me.”

 

* * *

 

Jessica and Matt don’t talk about Kilgrave. They don’t even talk about it when he walks with her to the precinct before they head to band practice on Tuesday afternoon. He’s totally silent next to her on the way there.

She’s fucking thankful for it.

Trish would have tried to talk her. Hell, so would Luke. But Matt doesn’t say a word. He just looks intimidating, with his fancy lawyer suit and his sharp smile, the one that says _go to hell_ or _try me,_ depending on the angle.

And when they get to practice and Danny asks Matt what happened to his hand, he laughs it off and says he fell, that he’s blind and it happens.

She’s not entirely sure she deserves Matt Murdock.

Later, when they’re at The Chaste, Luke corners her. Danny’s outside, smoking up with Colleen; Matt’s at the bar, flirting with Claire while his friend watches helplessly. Trish is recording something for her show.

“You okay?” Luke asks, low and level as ever.

She huffs, because she can’t lie to him. There’s a faulty wire in her brain, one that makes it impossible to lie outright to Luke’s compassionate, somehow delicate eyes. So she decides to lie by omission.

He pulls his arm over her shoulders and presses his face into her hair, breathing in deep. He smells like pine trees. Like Christmas when she was small, when her parents would drive them out, away from the city, to cut down their very own tree.

“Kilgrave showed up at Matt’s,” she says, finally, feeling fucking stupid and defeated and just. So goddamn pathetic. She shouldn’t ever have called him back. She should have blocked the number and then gotten a new one. But no, she’d been a fucking idiot. He’d called, asking for her, and she leapt up, just like she used to, asking _how high?_

“Jess,” Luke says, voice lower and heavy with concern.

“I – I’m okay.” It’s not an outright lie, because – maybe she is, kind of. Sort of. At least – legally, he can’t do that shit anymore. “He’s not going to be around at all, anymore. Not even in the shadows. Unless he wants to see me in court.”

“You got a restraining order?” he asks, putting it together faster than she thought he would.

Jessica nods and finishes her drink – her third of the night. Luke slides his just out of her grasp before she can steal his and she pouts, a little.

“Yeah,” she says, after a beat. She doesn’t mention Matt. It’s not – her place. Or something. She wants to leave that alone.

“Good,” Luke says, certain. He tilts his head and presses his mouth to the top of her own. His fingers squeeze her shoulder. He doesn’t say anything else because there’s nothing else _to_ say.

“Jess!” Danny says, sliding into the booth again, Colleen following with her hand laced in his. His eyes are just red enough for Jessica to guess just how much he’s smoked. Colleen looks significantly more put together. “My favorite Taurus.”

Jessica scoffs. “You really date this kid?” she says to Colleen.

“He’s a work in progress,” she replies without missing a beat.

It’s then that Matt and Foggy return with another round for everyone. “Hey,” Foggy greets, always congenial, always happy to see folks. His nails are a shimmering navy today, flashing under the bar lights.

“Whiskey for you,” he says, sliding the drink over to Jess and she thanks him with an incline of her head. Foggy hands off Luke’s drink to him, with a laughing, “Water, because you’re an adult.” Jessica rolls her eyes as Foggy slides into the booth next to her, Matt on his other side.

“And none for Danny,” Foggy finishes. “Because I’m not getting arrested for serving to a minor.”

Matt chuckles, shaking his head as Jessica snorts. Even Luke huffs in amusement.

“I’m actually not drinking anymore,” Danny says, looking up at Foggy.

Jessica watches the careful, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smirk that quirks the corner of Luke’s mouth as Danny speaks.

“I’m brewing my own kombucha now,” Danny continues. “The process is _fascinating_ and the probiotics –”

“Millennials,” Foggy sighs, silencing Danny with a shake of his head. “Killing the good old fashioned alcohol industry with fermented piss drinks.”

“Fog,” Matt says, laughing around his own expensive German beer, “You’re a millennial.”

“You’re drinking Miller High Life,” Danny says to Foggy, his face pinching. “I’m going to outlive you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Foggy says.

Jessica snorts. “So long as I go first,” she adds, tossing back most of her whiskey in one go. The familiar rush of heat curls down her throat before pressing like a hot hand against her chest.

“You’re all weird,” Danny says, like that’s some sort of insult coming from him. “Weird and not fun.” He pouts.

Just as Foggy gives a _here, here_ with his glass raised, Jessica hears the door to the bar open. Their Tuesday night after practice drinks are usually the bar’s slowest night, and hearing the door open after eight isn’t exactly a common occurrence.

When she looks up so does Matt, which she thinks is funny, for a beat, before she realizes he’s probably heard the bell and walking in the door are Frank and Micro.

Frank, unsurprisingly, looks like he’s been dragged down the street by wild dogs. He’s got a deep split in his lip and one hell of a bruise on his jaw. He’s wearing the same outfit he always wears – dark jeans, heavy boots, gray military jacket.

Micro catches Jessica’s eye. Their glasses – orange-tinted translucent frames – look massive on their face. Their hair is a dark, wild tangle knotted at the top of their head. Even with the topknot, Micro is almost a full foot shorter than Frank.

But they’re the first to catch Jessica’s eye and they shout in greeting. “Hey! The Defenders! We were just talking about you! Hey.”

Matt stiffens, his bruised knuckles tighten on top of table. Jessica watches him as Frank and Micro make their way over. Micro pulls up a chair to their table and sits in it, backwards.

Meanwhile, Frank pulls out a chair from the nearest empty table, turning it to press the back of the chair against the separate table’s edge. He sits, visible over Micro’s shoulder, expression as severe as ever. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Oh, hey!” Foggy’s voice says, bright, “you’re the drummer from Leatherneck. Dude –”

Danny interrupts, of all people, “Foggy, they’re not –”

Micro laughs, good natured. Their eyes crinkle when they do. “It’s all good, ‘dude’ is totally a gender neutral word,” they say to Danny before turning their gaze to Foggy. “That’s me, though! Did – hey! Woah, sick nail polish, where’d you get it?” They’re reaching across the table for Foggy’s hand, bar lights reflecting off the glitter on their own nails.

Foggy’s _thanks!_ is cut short by Frank’s grunt. The table turns their heads towards him. Jessica’s not really sure what to make of this social call. Though watching Micro still eyeing Foggy could be a solid source of entertainment for the night, but then Frank speaks.

“Wanted to drop by,” he says, purposeful. He sounds like he’s been punched in the throat recently. “Band’s goin’ on tour in August – Jersey, Philly, upstate. Been thinking The Defenders would be a good fit to come along.”

“Holy shit,” Foggy breathes.

It’s echoed by Danny. “ _Holy shit_.”

Even Jessica tries to wrap her head around the offer. A tour. They’ve been – dicking around, writing songs. Playing. Making fun of Danny. And Frank – who Jessica might think can be kind of a piece of shit, but is ultimately the most serious goddamn asshole she knows – thinks that they’re… worth something. Taking on tour.

“You should do it,” Micro says, animated, “Touring’s fun, especially Jersey, there’s a good bunch of venues. And –”

“Let me know,” Frank says, pushing back up out of his chair. He flips it back around, sliding it back into place at its table. “You know where to find me.” He’s up before any of them can reply, walking out of the bar.

Jessica nearly says something about the way Matt stiffens when Frank says goodbye to Claire – a respectful nod and grunt in her direction – but she’s too busy trying to swallow the offer.

“It’d be fun,” Micro adds, tapping the table once, twice, before pushing up themselves. “Good to meet you,” they add to Foggy before following Frank out. They wave goodbye to Claire.

“‘ _You know where to find me?’_ ” Foggy echoes, soft. “Who the hell is that guy? How does he _say_ stuff like that and still sound so cool? Is he actually some sort of – of – secret agent?”

It’s enough to draw a sharp, barking laugh out of Jessica. “Frank?” she asks, shoulders shaking. “If Frank’s working for the government I’m Princess fucking Peach and we’re in a dark, dark alternate reality.”

 

* * *

  

“Hey man,” Foggy says as he and Matt are shouldering their bags before shutting the lights out in their closet at the end of the week. He tilts his head up, unfolding his cane. “Why don’t we go out tonight? Just the two of us, Josie’s, a bottle of mysterious grain alcohol. Like old times?”

Matt blinks in surprise. He’s not sure if he’s more caught off guard by the question or the sudden realization that smacks him flat in the chest: he and Foggy _haven’t_ gone to Josie’s in months; haven’t had a night that’s just _them_ since at least May.

“Yeah, Fog, of course,” Matt breathes out, guilt churning like frigid water in his middle. Should he be spending more time with Foggy? “Let’s do it.”

“Good, good,” Foggy whispers, low. Matt’s not entirely sure if Foggy means to speak so quietly or if he meant to speak out loud at all. So he doesn’t say anything and finishes snapping out his cane.

“I’ve _missed_ this,” Foggy says as they make their way down the sidewalk, Matt’s hand wrapped around Foggy’s arm. His fingers play with the fold of his cuff, where it’s rolled around his elbow. “Nelson and Murdock. On the streets, together again.”

That draws a nervous laugh out of Matt. “On the streets?”

“Yeah, man!” Foggy exclaims. “ _Our_ streets. Looking for trouble, looking for fun –” Matt’s laughter grows harder “– well, maybe not you. Since you and Claire are…” Foggy trails off, hopeful sounding.

“Not dating,” Matt reiterates, though his heart skips furiously against his ribcage. “Going slow.”

“ _Pah_ , screw slow, dude! You’re really telling me you haven’t gone out again?”

“Foggy we went out on Monday; I was at church with her yesterday,” he says, chuckling as Foggy turns them around the corner, leading up to Josie’s.

“Did you at least do anything… _sinful_?” Foggy’s suggestive tone is absolutely absurd and Matt laughs again, throwing his head back.

“I can’t believe you right now,” Matt says, shaking his head as Foggy opens the door to Joise’s. The bar is loud, for Josie’s, on a Friday night. Matt can hear the clack of pinballs, conversation and laughter, the news on the television Josie has behind the bar.

“Well, well, look who the cat dragged in,” Josie calls, surly as ever. “The neighborhood’s finest paralegals.”

“Soon-to-be lawyers,” Foggy corrects. They fold into barstools at the corner of the bar. Matt can already hear Josie behind the bar, bottles clinking together as she gets a beer for Matt and the hiss of the well as she pulls Foggy’s from the tap.

“Yeah, and how long you been saying that?” Josie says, setting down their drinks in front of them. Matt thanks her, tilting his beer to his lips and taking a drink. “I hear this one’s in a band, though.”

He chuckles, self-conscious and sets down his drink. “I, uh, yeah, I am,” he says.

Foggy’s already leaning into him, wrapping a hand around his shoulder and supplying, enthusiastic, “The _Defenders_. Our boy here’s playing the guitar again, Josie.”

“I didn’t just _stop_ playing guitar for five years,” he says, laughing. “I just wasn’t in a band.”

“Well, from what I hear, you’re doing pretty well for yourself with it,” she says, sounding bemused.

“I wouldn’t go so far as that,” Matt says, rubbing the back of his neck with chagrin. He’s not exactly comfortable, with this. They’re just. Playing music. But, then again – “We’re doing a tour for two weeks, at the end of August, though.”

“Wait, you’re really doing that?” Foggy asks, bewildered.

They’d decided last night, after Matt had walked Claire to work after their afternoon at Saint George’s. Danny, Jess, and Luke had been at their usual booth.

Honestly, Matt was surprised to find that they all wanted to do it. It made everything feel – more real. Even more real than it had been when he was twenty. It’s something he and Elektra never did. He’s still never been further north than Queens. Now he’s going to load up into a van with Danny, Jessica, and Luke, and they’re going to play in Buffalo, in Philly, in New Brunswick, Camden, Asbury Park.

“Yeah,” Matt says in reply to Foggy, whetting his lips before taking another pull from his beer. “I’ve got all those sick days I’m never going to use anyway.”

“Yeah,” Foggy echoes, quiet. “Wow. I just didn’t really think that you would, you know?”

Something rears up and dies in Matt’s stomach. He frowns, “You think I can’t?”

“No, _Jesus_ , Matt,” Foggy says, fast, vehement, “Not that you can’t just – that… a tour is a commitment, you know?”

Matt’s brow furrows, but he manages a laugh, baffled, “Two weeks isn’t a long time, Foggy.”

“But it is, Matt, that’s half a month. That’s like, two cases,” Foggy replies, concern folding in his voice.

Matt’s frown deepens in confusion. He doesn’t – he can’t parse what Foggy’s saying. Or how he feels about it, really. “I – yeah, I guess.”

“I just mean… you have a life here, Matt,” Foggy sighs. “You’re just going to put that on hold? Paying your rent? _Claire_?”

“What?” Matt breathes, reeling. “I – Claire knows, Foggy. We decided last night at the bar.”

“Oh,” Foggy says, tight; hurt.

Matt’s insides twist, the guilt that had cropped up when Foggy asked him out slamming into him with full force. “Foggy,” he says, softer, “I was going to tell you tonight –”

“At the bar? Where everyone else knows?” he returns, accusatory. Matt feels a sharp blade tuck between his third and fourth rib. “Thanks, Matt.”

“Fog –” Matt says, hopeless, helpless.

“What are you gonna do, Matt?” Foggy asks. “We only have ‘till June left on our LSAT scores. We’re supposed to be applying to _law_ schools, Matt. And you’re… going on tour?”

Matt’s frown feels so fucking heavy, like he’s going to split his face in confusion. “You thought the band was a good idea,” he says, quiet.

“I thought it would… I don’t know, get you out of your stupid self-flagellating shell, Matt! Not that you would throw the last nine years of your life away for a _band_. Because that hasn’t blown up in your face before.”

There’s a beat and Matt’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to feel. He doesn’t feel attached to his body anymore. “It’s – a – Foggy –”

Something stretches and snaps inside Matt. “I –” he swallows. “Thanks for the encouragement, Fog,” he says, voice flat. He tugs out a bill from his wallet, not even paying attention to the fold. He doesn’t care what it is.

Matt snaps out his cane and walks away, a horrible, gnawing sense of anger unfurling from the chamber in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh… kind of shitty, foggy. i'm sorry. i promise it gets better? i know, i know.
> 
> the biggest shoutouts and thank yous to the beta squad, because y'all really fucking did _work_ on this chapter. [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/), this chapter wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable without your input. [sam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist), thanks for helping me figure out how and when to wrap shit up. you're both fuckin' incredible. [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo) and [tbhnour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tbhnour/pseuds/tbhnour) your cheerleading is immeasurably appreciated.
> 
> this project is so, so fun to work on. all of your comments give me so much joy to read and my heart grows three sizes with every view, subscription, bookmark, and kudos. i can't thank you enough for coming along for this ride.


	7. if this tour doesn't kill you, then i will

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which: the band goes on tour, danny's shame is true, matt goes to confession, and frank castle is the true feminist ally.
> 
> musical notes: title's from pup's "if this tour doesn't kill you, then i will". songs referenced (in order) are: "bodysnatchers 4 ever" & "catch me if you can" by leathermouth, and "heard it through the grape vine" by marvin gaye. 
> 
> additional notes: as professional life ruiner, [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/) pitched the leathermouth album and created _front toward enemy_ , the leatherneck album. you can view the album art and listen to the tracks [here](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/post/165095336693/the-growl-that-follows-is-nothing-short-of-feral). it's not required listening to enjoy the fic, but the edited songs definitely add a little somethin' extra. (note, if you aren't a fan of screaming hardcore – skip on the leatherneck stuff) 
> 
> content warnings: minor ableism, ableist language, mentions of homophobic/misogynistic harassment, violence (as usual, if i fuck up please, please let me know)

“You gonna miss me or this city more?” Claire asks, teasing. She leans over, nudging Matt’s shoulder with her own. They're sitting on the stoop of Danny and Luke’s building, while Matt’s band mates load up Claire’s mom’s van. Jessica’s unimpressed scoff echoes off the metal.

Matt laughs and sweeps his thumb over Claire’s knee. She's wearing shorts and a tank top, leaving so much skin for Matt to commit to memory before he leaves. The smoothness of her calves, tucked against his own; the sensitive skin at the back of her knees; the scar on her thigh (from falling off a playset as a kid, she explained when he asked).

They've been on one date since she'd taken him to her aunt’s restaurant; to a Shakespeare in the Park production of _Much Ado About Nothing_ , tucked all the way in the last row, Claire listening rather than watching while she traced her hands through his hair and Matt nosed at Claire’s own.

“You, definitely,” he says, smiling.

Claire laughs. “Somehow I doubt it,” she says. “I know for a fact you've never been further north than 116th Street. You love this city.”

“You jealous?” Matt asks, chuckling low as he leans in to press his mouth to her hairline. (Not the shaved side, which Matt is almost embarrassingly obsessed with - the minute textural differences he can feel under his fingers as it grows out fascinate him. It's like he gets to learn something new about her each day.)

“Absolutely,” Claire replies, instant, her fingertips hooking under Matt’s chin to bring him in for a kiss.

Her mouth is supple under his. Matt can taste the iced coffee she's been nursing all afternoon, just sweet enough with a dash of cinnamon and under it all the mint leaves she leaves in her water and chews when she's stressed. She'd quit smoking the year they met, replaced the urge with a mint plant cut from the church herb garden.

Danny wolf whistles and their kiss breaks as Claire bursts into a peal of laughter. Matt throws him the bird.

“You hurt me, Matt,” Danny says, laughing.

“Danny, you hurt all of us,” Jessica quips back.

“That's because you're mean. Luke doesn't –”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Luke says, all good nature and what Matt’s sure is a smile.

There's the roll of another car down the street, heavy and slowing. Matt can hear music coming from it until it rolls to a stop down the block and the engine dies. From the way the doors open and slam, he's certain it's Leatherneck.

And there's the familiar uneven fall of heavy boots on pavement, followed by another pair of footsteps, athletic.

“Hey Frank,” Claire says. “Rachel.”

The second pair of footsteps belong to Rachel Cole-Alves, Leatherneck’s guitarist. Matt had done his research, after the offer. Jessica had come home in the middle of it, Matt listening to old demos at the kitchen counter. She'd grabbed two beers, dropped into the stool next to him, pulled her laptop from her bag, and set to work.

“You guys ready to get this show on the road?” A female voice that must be Rachel asks. It's smooth, fluid, not _musical_ but there’s a liquid timbre to it.

“Just about,” Luke says and Matt can hear the _thunk_ of one of the van’s back doors being shut.

“Good,” she says. “And you have your directions to the hall in Albany?” Rachel waits for the affirmation before continuing, “We’ll head out first, you guys can take our six -”

“Six?”

“Follow,” Frank interjects, gruff.

“Humvee positions.” Rachel clarifies. “Frank an’ I go back.”

“You fought together?” Matt asks before he thinks better of it. He knows Frank is a former Marine - Jessica had dug up his service record. Which terrified Matt a little, how easy she knew more than Matt thinks Frank would want anyone to know, but he also knows - _trusts_ \- Jessica not to bring it up.

Frank gives a noncommittal grunt.

“No,” Rachel says. “Different tours.” She doesn't say anything else and Matt catches the now familiar sound of Jessica stepping on Danny’s foot.

There's rapid footsteps approaching, Karen’s breezy voice calling, “Hey! Sorry I’m late.” Matt can hear her breathing, heavy. “The stupid bus was late.”

That had been all Trish, Karen’s addition to the tour. She's covering it for some sort of… _AltPress_ thing that Matt doesn't entirely understand. Her inclusion has been something of a sticking point. Danny loves it, Jessica claims she doesn't care but Matt knows if it came down to it, she'd pull a hard yes for Trish. Frank had been typically brief about it. _Fine_. And that had been that.

“You made it - that's all that matters,” Luke says, as even and affable as ever.

“Yeah…” Karen’s voice drops off. “No Foggy?”

Matt blanches. He feels the knot of guilt and anger behind his sternum roll. Claire, whose hand is still in his hair, circles her thumb in the hollow under Matt’s ear, soothing. “No,” Matt says, swallowing. He's very aware of eyes on him - he doesn't need sight to tell when people are staring. “Couldn't get off work.”

The band knows, at least abstractly, about the fight. They don't know the details - only Claire, who had wheedled it out of him as soon as he’d shown up at the bar on Saturday night. ( _I know_ that _look_ , she’d said, putting his beer on the bar. _Talk to me_.)

“Oh,” Karen says, quiet.

“Well now that all the kids are here for the school bus, you wanna get this shit on the road?” Jessica says, prickly. Matt flashes her a small, thankful smile.

“Sounds good,” Luke says.

“I’ll drive first!” Danny shouts, over excited. “I have a great mix.” Matt can hear him practically run to the driver’s side of the van.

“Great,” Jess sighs. “Murdock, you're on shotgun, then.”

“Thanks, Jess,” Matt sighs. At least his monitors can cancel noise.

“Uh,” Karen breathes. “Should I…?”

“We’ll take you,” Frank says. Matt’s head turns in surprise. He's sure he’s not the only one who does a double take.

“Oh!” Karen says, quiet. “Thanks.”

Two sets of footsteps walk off, uneven and staccato all at once.

“Leaving in five, then,” Rachel finishes, before turning and following Frank and Karen. Matt can hear the doors of the van opening, Frank telling Karen where she can put her things.

“Alright then,” Luke says, taking a breath. “Forward.”

Matt pushes up off the steps, Claire following suit. Matt sucks his teeth, suddenly feeling a sharp pang of nervousness. He's excited, he is, but -

There’s _Claire_ , and whatever this is that's new and good, and Foggy’s words to him. They all tumble together in his chest, an ugly storm that rises into his throat.

Claire sighs. Her hand reaches up, soft against his face, and pushes his hair back. “You gonna miss me?” she asks, teasing, her smile louder than a bomb.

Her tone, light, playful coaxes a matching smile out of him. It pulls across his face and leaves a crack in his chest for the twisted up feeling inside of him to escape through.

“And if I said I would?”

Claire hums. “I’d say it was a good answer.” She leans up and Matt bends down, their mouths meeting in the middle. He can feel her grinning against his mouth and while Matt’s warmed by it, he wants their last kiss for two weeks to be - more.

So he pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, his free hand moving from her waist, up to press against the middle of her back. Her frame is hot against his and he has to force himself from wanting more, _more_ because -

Danny honks. “Bro!” he calls.

Claire laughs and pulls back, sliding her hand from his hair and down his face. She taps his bottom lip - swollen, just a little, from her teeth catching it - with one fingertip. “I’ll be here.”

 

* * *

  

The first thing Matt learns about leaving the city is that it’s – quiet. So much quieter than the Kitchen. Sure, Albany has traffic and cars and _life_ in it, but it’s nothing compared to the sound of the city. A soloist versus an entire orchestra.

He’s trying not to be unsettled by it, sitting at a table outside the bar where they’ll be playing their first show.

“You okay?” Karen asks him, jerking Matt out of his thoughts.

“I, uh – yeah,” he lies. His leg’s jumping under the table and he can hear crows, cawing to each other somewhere nearby.

“Yeah, you look it,” Karen says, quiet but there’s something there, hidden underneath the reserved tone of her voice.

Matt laughs, the back of his neck flushing. “It’s just – quiet.”

“Is it?” she asks, as if she doesn’t agree.

Matt tries to keep from looking surprised. “You don’t think so?”

“I guess not,” she replies. “My, uh, hometown in Vermont had maybe four hundred people in it.”

“Really?” Matt doesn’t even know how to consider that – what that kind of space would look like. Feel like. Sound like. “I – what was it like?”

Karen inhales, the sound sharp. He bites on his tongue, something about the sound is. Fractured. She pauses, before replying. “Different.”

Matt whets his lips, considering a reply when Jessica’s voice calls from the entry to the bar. “Hey! You plan on playing or are you just going to leave me here to die with Danny?”

Matt laughs and unfolds his cane. He gets up and follows Jess inside the bar. “Die with? You planning a murder-suicide and not inviting me?”

Though Matt would never admit it, it’s strange to have someone else run their soundcheck. While it’s not cataclysmically awful, he finds himself missing Frank’s grunts for yes or no. They’re familiar and uncomplicated and don’t involve Jessica snapping, after five minutes of awkward silence, _use your_ words _asshole, not your hands_ to whoever the bar has running sound for the night.

Matt thinks it’s only through sheer luck he manages not to do something stupid during his portion of the soundcheck like break a string or fall off the stage and die. Jessica snaps a drumstick clean in half over her leg during hers, cursing loudly. She storms off to get a drink before returning.

Even Danny is more quiet than usual, nervously jingling his keys while they wait for their time to start playing. They’re on at nine, with Leatherneck on at ten – a forty-five minute set.

“Hey,” Luke says, deliberate and low while The Mutants – some sort of industrial noise thing – pack up their gear. “We got this. It’s just like playing back home and we’re good at that.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Well we’re certainly better than _those guys_ ,” Jessica mutters.

“I thought they were kind of good,” Danny mutters.

“Of course you did.”

“Guys,” Karen’s voice calls. “You’re almost on.”

Matt can feel an old batch of nerves move up his spine, sinking ice-cold claws into him. He forces himself to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“We got this,” Luke says again, softer, reverent. Matt finds he knows what’s coming next and he clings to it, to the sound of Luke’s steady voice saying, “Forward. Always.”

They open with a newer song – the one Danny’s been throwing loops on. Matt feels a chill down his spine, worrying his lip as hears his own voice, disembodied and far-away sounding, woven through with feedback from Danny’s synth: _“I've been preoccupied of late with, uh, questions of morality. Of right and wrong, good and evil…_ ”

He puts one foot down on his pedal and lets his guitar give off feedback while Danny’s loop goes on – _Sometimes the delineation between the two is a sharp line. Sometimes it's a blur, and often it's like pornography…_ – he hears the hum of Luke’s bass, too. The slow pull of the notes he’s drawing out on them.

Matt crosses himself and leans in. “ _It's where you live, but you don't know how it's built. If we're just dust, then it doesn't matter who you kill_ ,” he sings, soft into the microphone. “ _Don't cut me up and tell me that it's okay, just turn it off 'cause I don't care anyway_.”

His fingers begin to move over the strings of his guitar, slow, purposeful. Everything about the song builds slowly. Luke’s bass, as steady and present as he is, serves as counterpoint to the way Matt’s guitar and Danny’s keys weave in and out. Jessica’s drums come in last, the pitter-patter of rain. Matt’s voice walks them through the song.

And when their instruments bow out, he feels something sure, strong, and confident push through his chest as he leans in and sings, “ _When I grow up, I want to be a heretic_.”

When they’re rushing into their next song, Matt can hear Danny give the crowd an excited, “Albany, we’re The Defenders and we fucking love you.”

By the time they finish the set, Matt’s grinning his way through their closing cover and can feel the floor of the bar shake as the crowd sings it back.

 

* * *

 

Matt’s voice blows out in the middle of the third show, at a VFW Hall in Plattsburgh. It happens just as he hits the last chorus of _Mene_ , cracking as he shouts, leaning so far into the mic he can feel it wobble, “ _We don’t feel anything!_ ”

He pulls himself off the stage at the end of their set, guitar in one hand and Jessica’s arm in the other. She leads him out to the van, carrying Luke’s bass with her. They’re getting – better, at loading and unloading their gear, though Matt is honestly terrified at the military precision with which Leatherneck breaks down their shit, packing it in their trailer while The Defenders are still negotiating aux cables. He’s more than a little jealous, considering Danny’s attempts at packing involve wiring being moved piece by piece into the van for _feng shui_. Matt keeping Jess company while she hurls curses at their gear until it all fits is faster _and_ less likely to result in them losing something.

They spend the night crammed into one motel room, before their first day off since Albany, and Matt wakes up feeling like something has died in the back of his throat. Danny’s still passed out next to him, snoring loudly. He can hear someone in the shower. Luke, he thinks.

“You sound like fucking shit,” Jessica says when he mumbles a hello.

“Thanks,” Matt returns, and _Jesus_ , he does. He tries to clear his throat, drinking water from the tap in their shitty, cramped motel bathroom. Nothing helps.

He’s not freaking out about it at all. Definitely not freaking out as he tugs a shirt on that smells distinctly like Danny’s fucking _vape pen_. He groans and shucks it off, pulls another out of a dufflebag. It doesn’t exactly smell clean, but at least it doesn’t smell like grape kool-aid on steroids.

There’s a thud when Jessica’s foot impacts with the side of the bed Matt and Danny had been sharing. “Get up,” she huffs. “We’re leaving for breakfast with everyone in five.” When there’s no movement or signs of life from Danny, Matt can hear the rustle of blankets being tugged off. “God,” Jessica groans. “And can you _please_ put on some goddamn clothes?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Danny says, thick with sleep. Matt can hear him sit up, the rickety motel bed creaking as he moves. “Not cool.”

“Neither is that tattoo and yet here I am, looking at it,” Jessica returns.

“You know I can’t sleep with a shirt on, Jess,” Danny snaps.

She makes a pained noise. “Ugh. I can’t deal with you right now – I’ll go –” Matt can hear her groan. From the sound of her voice, she’s hungover. “Figure out if everyone else is up.” She stalks off, her boots thumping on the scratchy carpet floor. The door creaks when she opens it and _thuds_ when it shuts.

“I’ve _never_ slept with a shirt on,” Danny repeats.

Matt can hear Luke groan from the bathroom. Matt throws the vape-shirt in Danny’s direction. He gags when it hits him in the face.

Unsurprisingly, Plattsburg is slow before church on a Sunday morning. When they walk into the diner, it smells so strongly of _coffee_ both Matt and Jess actually groan with pleasure. He can smell the sharp, bitter aroma of coffee, coupled with the sweet scents of jam, syrup, and –

“ _Pie_ ,” Micro breathes, as if whispering a holy word. “God, I love tour pie. It’s magic.”

Their waitress insists on shoving two tables together for the nine of them and leading Matt to it. She’s older, smells like drugstore perfume, and calls him _doll_. Jessica snorts. Matt flips her off when he’s seated, the waitress, Annie, patting his shoulder before she asks, “Now, what can I get y’all? Coffees?”

“Actually, do you have cold-pressed orange juice? I could use some vitamin C,” Danny says.

“Don’t know about that, but I could get you some Minute Maid,” Annie says.

“Oh, it’s a juice making process that preserves the flavor and essential nutrients –”

“Well I’m sure I could find you an orange and a reamer, then,” she amends, bright. Kathy cackles loudly, quickly joined by Jessica’s snicker, and an amused huff from Frank.

“Minute Maid is fine,” Danny whispers, bashful.

“Ma’am,” Frank asks, evenly hoarse as ever. (Why isn’t _his_ voice shot to shit? He spends his sets literally _screaming_. Matt sings like a normal human being and gets to sound like he’s going through puberty all over again? The fuck.) “You always serve bullshit here, or that just him?”

There’s a pause, after Frank speaks. Matt’s sure he looks like hell. He and Rachel punched out a guy in the middle of Leatherneck’s set last night for sticking his hands all over a girl who must’ve been fifteen, tops, from the sound of her voice.

He braces himself.

“Fresh pot,” Annie answers him, unexpected amusement in her voice. “Coffee for you too, hon?”

“Tea, if you have it,” Frank says. Matt tilts his head. It just seems so – “Please.”

“Sure do. Green or black?”

“Green,” Frank replies. “With honey, if ya can. For me ‘n my friend Red, here.”

A surprised, raspy laugh escapes Matt. “I don’t –”  

“Oh goodness, your poor throat,” Annie says, touching his shoulder again. “I’ll keep ‘em coming.”

“Green tea?” Jessica asks, incredulous, when the waitress has left with their drink orders and a request for pie from Micro.

“Good for the throat,” Frank huffs.

When their drinks arrive, Matt’s annoyed to admit it but as the honeyed tea, with a splash of lemon Annie added without even being asked, moves down his throat, it _does_ help. His order (eggs, bacon, pancakes – because it feels like he hasn’t properly eaten in _days_ – which is true, he supposes) comes out less wrecked, but still in a lower register than he’s used to.

While Jessica and Micro talk shop – apparently Micro’s hihats aren’t as tight as Jessica’s, they want to know if she can take a look – and Kathy flicks bits of what Matt thinks is egg onto Danny’s salad when he’s busy talking Karen’s ear off, Frank grunts. “Always cracks on the third day, ‘till you’re used to it.”

Matt blinks in surprise – Frank hasn’t spoken so much as a word since they ordered their food. “What?”

“Your voice,” he explains. “You gotta find the sweet spot in your range, Red.”

“I –” Matt huffs. “Oh.”

There’s the scrape of a knife and fork on Frank’s plate. He eats and then speaks, “You’ll figure it out.”

“And what, you’re just – naturally able to do… whatever it is you do, Frank?”

“‘M highly competent for a head case, Red,” he returns, dry.

“From when you got shot?” Matt hears himself ask before he can stop himself.

“Mhm,” Frank grunts in reply. “Not always sure what year it is, but my moments of clarity come from the strangest places.”

Matt’s not entirely sure what to say to that, because – he knows what Jess found out about Frank. And it’s not his place to say. Yet here’s Frank, talking about it with a sort of bitter confidence.  It’s – disarming, even for Matt to hear.

It’s one thing to be easy natured about his blindness. Because that’s just. Who he is. He was in an accident, when he was a kid, and now he can’t see. It’s been two thirds of his life that he hasn’t been able to see.

But, to get shot in the head at twenty-two...that’s something else entirely.

Luckily, he’s saved from having to respond by a loud thud and the table erupting with Luke’s whistle and Danny chanting, “Jess! Jess!”

Kathy’s sharp laugh punctuates it. “Well shit Jones, good fuckin’ game. Arm wrestling champion of Plattsburgh.”

 

* * *

  

Jessica’s stretched out in the back of the van, her feet propped on top of Luke’s bass head. She’s fucking sore. Her shoulders hurt and her knees hurt and she’s heard _Spice World_ more times that she’s ever, ever needed to hear it in her life.

Luke’s hands work the knots in her neck while Danny drives them through rural Pennsylvania. She’s trying to relax into his touch, half tempted to ask Matt if she can borrow his monitors until they find a gas station where she can get new some goddamn earplugs. (She’d ripped one in half last night in frustration when Danny had started up his driving playlist _again_.)

The long drive through Pennsylvania (who knew the state could be so fucking _big_?) hasn’t exactly been their most pleasant. It started out with Danny dumping some putrid smelling smoothie shit all over their back up map and now they’re on hour two of the drive, the windows still open while they try to clear out the smell of stale kale.

It only gets worse when Luke says, “Hey, has anyone seen the Leatherneck van recently?”

“Oh, yeah, I just saw it,” Matt mutters.

“Don’t be a dick, Murdock,” Jessica returns, swinging her legs back down and sitting up. Her knees protest but she ignores it to lean forward, over the center console. “Danny?”

“Uh, no, actually.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Jessica groans. “Pull over, asshole.”

“But I can get us there fine, it’s just down route, uh …” Danny reaches for his phone. “No GPS.”

She hits the back of his headrest. “Then pull over you fuck!”

By the time they’ve pulled over at the nearest truck pullout, managed to scrape together enough of a signal to call Leatherneck – with Karen picking up Frank’s phone – it’s been over an hour that they’ve spent in the middle of the goddamn _wilds of Pennsylvania_.

“You’re not driving anymore,” Jessica says, “privileges revoked.”

Danny looks properly shamed. Which, hey, she appreciates, but really she wants a goddamn drink. A cigarette will do, at least, until they reach Philly and she can get herself to a bar. Which of course – she’s still got to wait for Leatherneck to show up and bail them out.

Which sucks. So fucking hard.

The Leatherneck van pulls into the pullout behind them after what feels like a goddamn lifetime (two hours and seventeen minutes, actually – she keeps track for a more thorough shaming of Danny once she’s had something to drink). Frank is the first one out of the van, boots crunching on gravel. His expression even makes Jessica feel a bit on edge.

He’s followed quickly by Rachel, Kathy, and Micro, Karen sitting in the open side door of their van.

“What the hell happened?” Frank asks.

“This goddamn idiot spilled a _smoothie_ on the fucking map,” Jessica says, jerking her thumb over to Danny.

“Actually it was a green juice. Smoothies are different, they have – ” Danny’s eyes catch Frank’s “– yogurt,” he finishes, quiet and withdrawn.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Jessica mutters.

Rachel sighs, sounding pained. Jessica’s well beyond sighing. “Well,” Rachel says, brusque, “you have a pen? I’ll write out the directions for you.” She walks over to where Luke’s pulling out a pen and an old instruction manual from the glove compartment, gathering her red hair into a knot at the back of her head.

Jessica looks over at Frank. “You got a cigarette?”

He grunts, nods, and reaches into one of his coat’s deep pockets before pulling out a pack of menthols. Jessica swallows the scoff in her throat. She’s not exactly in a position to complain, Frank’s shitty cigarettes are gonna be what gets her through the next two hours.

“Thanks,” she says, pulling one from the outstretched pack. She lights it with Frank’s lighter and takes a drag. It’s shit. But it’s something.

“There,” Rachel says. “That should get you there.” She hands off the directions to Luke, who thanks her. “Get a new map, when we’re in town. And a sippy cup for this one.” She nods her head in Danny’s direction – who, for the first time since Jessica has met him, looks appropriately embarrassed.

“C’mon,” Rachel continues, turning back to the rest of her band. “Let’s go. I want to be in Philly before three.”

Frank and Rachel stalk off, followed by Micro and Kathy. Jessica watches them leave, sucking down her cigarette as fast as she can. (She knows Matt’ll try to be a martyr and hide how much it bothers him.)

It’s only because she’s the last in the van that she hears Micro, in a cold, mechanical voice say, “Extraction complete.”

Kathy cackles in reply and Jessica watches them low five before piling into their van.

 

* * *

 

“ _In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti._ Amen.”

“Ah, Latin,” the priest on the other side of the confessional says. His voice is a thin rasp, but Matt can hear the amusement in it. “It’s been awhile since someone’s used that in confession.”

Matt laughs self-consciously. He can feel the back of his neck flush. He fiddles with his glasses on the table next to him. “I can do it again, if –”

That draws a laugh from the father. “I remember it. I’m not that old yet,” he says, good natured, “Go on, my son.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Matt finishes, swallowing around the strange knot in his throat. It’s been a long time since he’s taken confession with a priest that’s not Father Diego at St. George’s. But – they’re two days from coming home and Matt feels like he’s got to do something. _Anything._ Before he goes back to the city – to Foggy.

Their argument has become a heavier and heavier stone in Matt’s stomach with each passing night.

“It’s been, uh…” Matt pauses. He considers, doing the math. Their tour is almost finished – they have three more shows in New Jersey and then it’s back home for the last one in Brooklyn. “Two weeks, since my last confession. I’ve been… fighting. With someone I love very much.”

“Physically?”

“No, Father,” Matt shakes his head, until he remembers. _Kilgrave_. But he’s already – confessed for that.

“Well. Not really.” He takes a breath. “My dad was a fighter. Old school. Boxer. Lost more than he won. Had a 24-31 record before he –” he cuts himself off.

It’s been fifteen years. It shouldn’t hurt this much. But even with his fingers pressed against the woodgrain of the table next to him, Matt can still feel the bloody pulp of his father’s face under his touch, no longer recognizable. Just – tenderized meat.

“Uh.” He tries to pick back up the threat, pull himself out of the memory. “But he could take a punch. _Jesus_ , could he take a punch.”

“Language,” the priest chides.

“Right,” Matt says, face heating. “Sorry Father.” He clears his throat. “Yeah… Guys he went up against used to say it was like hitting oak. And nights when he was outmatched, my dad’s strategy was to let ‘em hit him ‘till they broke their hands.”

He breathes out, clenching and unclenching his fists against his thighs. He can still feel every hit he’s ever landed on a person. Every hit that Stick had taught him. Hitting Kilgrave, the first time he'd laid hands on another person since he left Stick’s care at seventeen.

“Never got knocked out, my dad. He was always on his feet, even when he lost. Every now and then, though… Every now and then,” he whispers, “he’d get hit and something inside him would snap.”

Matt can remember that sound, too. He can remember, as if watching an old, old movie, the look in his dad’s eyes, when something snapped. It’s easier to remember that, than it is to remember his smile.

“His eyes would go dead… and he’d start walking forward, real slow, hands at his side like he wasn’t afraid of anything. As a kid, I didn’t understand it.”

He must have been – five, maybe six. His dad coming home from a fight, his lip torn to fucking shreds. Matt remembers the blood on the floor. And his grandmother, watching him on fight nights until she’d died when he was seven, telling him to go to bed, that she would deal with his father.

Unable to help but smile at the memory, because the way his grandmother would face down his dad, after a bad fight – that was the same kind of fearlessness, like walking into a ring with an animal. Matt continues to speak.

“My grandmother – you would have liked her. She was the real Catholic, Latin mass every Sunday, confession on Wednesday and Saturday nights – used to say: ‘Be careful of the Murdock boys. They got the Devil in ‘em.’ And that’s what my dad was doing, in the ring, letting the Devil out.”

“And have you let the Devil out?” the Father asks, quiet.

“I don’t know,” Matt admits, feeling a rush of _fear_ push through his veins. “My dad,” he explains, sounding and feeling smaller than he’s felt in years, “he wanted me to make something of myself. Be a lawyer. Do something good for the world.”

“That’s a noble dream,” the Father says before adding, dry, “but maybe not a realistic one.”

Matt chokes out a laugh. It’s times like this that he’s certain a God exists, more certain than he feels when he wraps his fingers with his grandmother’s rosary, or when he’s in mass on Sunday mornings. Because somehow, this priest he doesn’t know, has Matt in crosshairs.

“And this fight,” the priest continues, “it’s with your father?”

He shakes his head. “His ghost, maybe. He died when I was a kid.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss…”

“Matthew,” Matt whispers. “My name is Matthew. And it’s – alright, Father. It’s been a long time.”

“But clearly you carry him with you, Matthew,” the priest says. “You’ve spent the first ten minutes of your confession talking about him without telling me what it is you wish to confess.”

That draws another sheepish laugh out of Matt. “My best friend and I were going to become lawyers together, apply to the same programs, own a firm together,” he starts, slow. Purposeful.

“But?”

“I joined a band,” he says. It sounds pathetic when it comes out. “And I feel… alive. Playing. Even when I’m nervous, or…” He takes a breath. “It’s not fighting, but. It’s not exactly making anything of myself either.”

“Yet you want to keep doing it, much to the disappointment of your friend and your father’s memory?”

Matt laughs, a bit bitter. “Something like that.”

“Well, Matthew,” the Father says. “I don’t know your friend and I didn’t know your father. But I do know that God wants us to be happy and he wants us to do what we can for others.”

He laughs again. “That doesn’t sound very Catholic of you.”

On the other side of the partition, the priest chuckles in reply. “If that makes me a bad Catholic, I’m alright with that.” He pauses, before adding, “Is being a lawyer the only way to do good in the world?”

Matt could think of the food pantry. He could think of Claire’s hands, smelling of sterile and sharp antiseptic. He could think of Luke, who tempts Jessica from the bar with the promise of takeout Chinese. He could, he could, he could.

But what he pictures is this:

Frank Castle, staying late after a show in Rochester, checking on a girl who’d gotten hit in the head in the pit. Calmly, quietly asking her for her name, about the set, about her life. Frank asking him over breakfast in Philly about braille printers in the city, about how to get the zines Leatherneck brings with them to every show about community self defense, tenant organizing, and first aid printed in braille.

“God can come in many forms, Matthew,” the priest says to his silence. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Do you care if I answer yes or no?”

“Not really.” Matt chuckles despite himself, as the Father continues, “I think you already know what you want to do, Matthew. And it’s not a question of God forgiving you. It’s a question of you forgiving yourself.”

Outside the church, Matt is hit with the scent of menthol cigarettes. It’s punctuated almost immediately with, “Let me guess. Four _Hail Mary_ s and an _Our Father_?”

“Frank?” Matt tilts his head to the wheeze of Frank’s voice. He walks over, cane tapping out over the steps down from the church. “Did I run late?” he reaches for his watch, running his fingers over the leads.

“You’re alright, Red,” Frank replies. They’ve still plenty of time before they’re supposed to play.

“Are you… going to confession?”

“Me?” he says and Matt swears he almost hears a laugh. “Nah. Not the type.”

Frank takes another drag on his cigarette, the exhale audible. Matt can smell the smoke, even as it’s blown away from him. He tries – and fails – to wrap his head around this. Around Frank Castle standing outside a church in the middle of New Jersey.

Frank, who's banned from every Starbucks in Buffalo, according to a story from Jess and Danny, who say Frank dragged another customer out by the neck after he told the girl behind the bar that she needed a _strong man in her life, to fix her attitude_. (Supposedly, Frank knocked out some of his teeth. The frightening thing is – Matt believes all of it.)

That Frank Castle, outside of this church, smoking his menthols.

“Then what are you doing here, Frank?” he’s asking the question before he can talk himself out of it, curiosity too piqued.

“Used to be the type, once.” Frank says, simple, as if he were talking about the weather.

Matt waits for Frank to finish that thought, and when he doesn’t, he waits for Frank to finish his cigarette. His hands wring around the handle of his cane, nervous energy pushing through him. Frank doesn’t say anything more, and neither does Matt.

They walk back to the venue together, Matt’s cane tapping an opposite rhythm to Frank’s lurching gait.  

 

* * *

  

Jessica thinks Asbury Lanes might be the kitschiest goddamn place she’s ever set foot in. It’s an old bowling alley – complete with atrocious wood paneling and linoleum floors circa 1960 in godawful blues and oranges – that’s been converted into a performance space. It still, however, smells like a fucking bowling alley.

“Seriously?” she asks, setting her drum down on the platform that’s built onto the lanes where they’ll be playing. She can absolutely see someone busting their ass here tonight. Christ.

“It’s not so bad,” Luke says with a shrug as he finesses an amp to her right. “Jello Biafra played here.”

“Sorry I’m not jumping for joy over the prospect of smelling the same stale feet as Jello Biafra,” she returns, bitter about halfway through until she catches the way his face curves into a slow, easy smile. He’s just trying to rile her. It makes something warm flutter in her chest.

She flips him off.

In the middle of their set, something strange happens.

When Matt and Danny lean into their microphones, voices dragging out the chorus to _Mene_ , Jessica hears more than two voices. She squints around Luke, drum sticks and hands flying while she moved through the song’s strongest, heaviest notes. Pressed up to the front of the crowd, Matt oblivious to their presence, are three faces from their Camden show the night before, shouting, “ _We don't feel anything! We don't feel anything!_ ”

Jess makes eye contact with Danny. _Holy shit,_ he mouths, eyebrows so high they disappear into his mop of strawberry blond curls.

 _I know_ , she mouths back before jerking her gaze to the people from the Camden show. What the fuck? She doesn't know if she's supposed to be creeped out or flattered.

But mostly? She's creeped, honestly. What the fuck.

Danny, however, takes the repeat offenders with apparent aplomb. His shirt’s gone before they're even in the first chords of _Nightmare_. At least _that_ Jessica knows she can be disgusted by.

However, even she’ll admit there's something magic about covering My Chem in New Jersey. The entire goddamn building shakes as soon as Matt dives into the opening riff, a fury and a fervor in the way the room erupts into song. She’s laughing and singing along herself by the time the song is ending, the final crash of her drums ringing out with the last piercing note of Matt’s guitar.

“Did you _see_ that?” Danny asks when they're at the bar, waiting for a round. He’s still fucking shirtless. Jessica’s about to pull a t-shirt off the Leatherneck table and shove it over his head.

“See what?” Matt asks. He's grinning, letting loose a bit of the contrary asshole Jessica knows hides just underneath the surface of his skin. He's been doing that a lot more, as the tour’s gone on. But tonight he's been… more settled than Jess has seen him in a while.

Since Foggy had stopped coming around, really.

It's something she’ll have to pry about when they're home. For now, she’ll just have to enjoy Danny’s sheepish squawk and his, “I meant -”

“ _Danny_ ,” she says, as she sets down her now-finished whiskey. She makes eye contact with the bartender, waves her hand for another. “There were three people from last night here.”

“Seriously?” Matt says, his face twisting with surprise. His glasses look even more red than usual under the orange lights of the venue.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” Danny says. “Because we're _fire_.”

“That word doesn't belong to you,” Luke says.

“We’re the shit,” Danny amends.

Luke’s mouth quirks into a smile. “There you go.”

“I - _Jesus_ ,” Matt breathes, ducking his head.

“I’ll drink to that,” Jessica says when the bartender sets down her third drink. Matt raises his beer and she clinks her glass to the neck of his bottle.

Their set had been rowdy. The songs are getting harder, played live night after night. Faster and a little dirtier as they've run out of clean clothes and fucks to give. When Matt’s voice broke in New York, in the next show he’d found a new range, lower, an inch of snarl to his crooning.

But it's nothing compared to the way Leatherneck plays.

It's like a volley of machine gun fire, absolute cacophony. A war zone between crowd and band. If Jessica were a different person, she'd be terrified. But she's Jessica Jones. That's not her weakness. (Occasionally giving a damn? That's another story.)

In Philly, Kathy jumped off a stack of boxes twice her height into the crowd. Frank dropkicked a guy hurling slurs and played the entire back half of _Bodysnatchers_ with his foot on his throat.

Yet, the shows in Jersey have unleashed an entirely new level of chaos to the Leatherneck sets. In Camden, she watched Frank - without even so much as stopping the set - pull a skinhead from the crowd in the breakdown of _Catch Me If You Can_ and slam him, mouth and nose first, into the edge of the stage, nearly ripping open his jaw. The guy beat a quick retreat - watched warily by Luke with his arms crossed imposingly over his chest.

Tonight seems to be no different. The crowd is a writhing, screaming mass. She doesn't bother to turn to Matt to comment on the way the crowd moves almost like a body of water - he’s got his monitors tucked back in to dull the sound. Jess almost wishes she'd bought more earplugs herself. She's going to have ringing in her ears for weeks after this tour is over.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Danny shouts, stunned. His eyes are wide. The back of his bare neck looks pink.

Jess follows his line of sight. Someone’s ripped open Frank’s t-shirt from the collar down. A massive, stylized skull is tattooed over his chest. A smattering of scars almost frame it - one, diagonal over his ribs, another slashing at his neck, she's sure there’s more, knowing Frank. They all look hand stitched.

When she looks back at Danny, the kid is looking sadly at his own chest. She catches Luke’s eye. He's fighting laughter, _hard_. His cheeks are puffed with the effort.

Jessica gives Danny a brief, sympathetic pat on the back of his shoulder before smirking into her whiskey.

 

* * *

  

The first thing Matt hears when he climbs out of the van in Brooklyn is Claire's laughter. It's bright, perfect, and so, so much better in real life than on the phone.

“Oh my god, what is on your _face_?” she asks, amused.

Matt smiles sheepishly when he steps to where her voice comes. He hasn't really bothered too much with shaving - he did it once, before they left for Syracuse and realized it’d be too much trouble to try to keep it up. “Hey, Claire,” he breathes, chest tight and glowing.

“Look at you,” Claire murmurs, still laughing, all fondness. Her hands come up, cupping his jaw in both hands. Her skin is _soft_ even with the barrier of a beard between them. Her hands continue, moving up along the line of his jaw to twist her fingers in his hair and tug Matt down for a kiss.

He sighs happily into her mouth. Matt’s hands slide around her waist. The thin, worn fabric of her t-shirt pushes up from his hands and he can dig his fingertips into the hot skin of her hips. Her teeth tug on his bottom lip, working over the skin until Matt shivers against her. He groans and tongues at the roof of her mouth, teasing the tip along the ridges there.

She moans, quiet, as their kiss breaks, her teeth pulling on his bottom lip as she settles back onto the balls of her feet. “God, I missed doing that,” she says, warm.

“Did you?” Matt asks, low. He drags his thumbs in slow circles against the skin of her hips. She shifts, leaning into the touch. He leans down and presses his mouth to hers again, brief, a whisper of a kiss. He does it again. Their mouths make a wet, perfect sound, when he does it a third time.

“Yeah,” she breathes. Matt traces one hand up her side. She's wearing something low cut, a tank top, maybe. His fingertips slide over the jut of her collarbone as he brings his hand up to her face. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest as he does.

When his hand comes to her face, he traces his fingers over her mouth. He can feel her smile, bright and wide across her face like a banner. Her lips are tender from their hello kiss, cheeks roughed by his beard, and Matt can feel the deep lines at the corners of her smile. She lets him map her face, wordless, and the gesture of her silence makes Matt’s chest ache, it's so full.

(The only person that’s ever let him just touch like this was his father; the only person to be so open, so honest with him.)

“I decided something, while you were gone,” Claire says, when Matt presses two fingers to the curve of her bottom lip. He smiles when he feels her mouth move under his touch.

“Yeah?” He asks, unable to keep from laughing. He's so lit up.

“Yep,” Claire pops the _p._ “Waiting sucks.” Her fingers scratch at the base of his skull. Matt moves his hand up into her hair. (She's shaved the undercut recently, the baby hairs impossibly fine under his touch.)

He tilts her head up and kisses her again in reply, slower now. Intentional.

“All of you are _disgusting_ ,” Kathy says then, loudly, as the door to Leatherneck’s van shuts behind her. “Romance is _boring_.”

Matt can hear Colleen and Danny laughing nearby. Trish makes an embarrassed, abortive noise. Jessica scoffs. Matt’s sure she’s flipping off Kathy, who cackles.

“Hey Kathy,” Claire calls around Matt. She drops hand hands from his hair, down to his shoulders. “Need a hand with anything?”

“Shit yeah,” she says. “Come on over here and do something more useful than sucking off Murdock’s face.”

“Hey,” Matt says, laughing with Claire.

“Well, you heard the lady,” Claire says, sly. She kisses his cheek before walking over to Kathy and her van.

Matt lingers for a moment, something slotting into place in his chest. It's good to be home.

The Silent Barn show feels like a big deal. They're all a little nervous for it, Matt thinks. Danny keeps jumping up and down. Jessica’s got a drink in one hand and Trish in the other. Luke, however, by nature of being Luke, is the only one who manages a modicum of chill.

Part of it is that Vice is here, another photographer who is assigned to Karen’s piece. And about forty minutes before their set, the guy – Eddie, Matt thinks his name is – asks if he can photograph _them_ in the green room.

Which results in a half an hour of Danny trying to position himself in the coolest way possible. This is not limited to switching outfits with Colleen, vaping excessively, and making Matt and Luke sit on the floor while Danny positions himself on the threadbare and mildly disgusting couch in Silent Barn’s makeshift green room.

Near the end of it, Frank wanders into the green room, announced by his heavy step and the way his gruff voice says, “The fuck?” upon seeing the four of them with a photographer.

Matt can literally feel Danny shrink next to him, shamefaced, and muttering under his breath. This reaction to Frank’s presence draws a high, cackling laugh from Jessica. It’s infectious and quickly spreads to both Matt and Luke.

Eddie’s camera clicks again. “There it is,” he says, pleased. “Thanks guys.”

“ _Nooo_ ,” Danny whines.

 

* * *

 

 

Matt feels sweaty, exhilarated, and worn when they step off the stage after their set. His pulse races under his skin. When he tugs out his monitors he can hear cheering, still lingering over the PA’s _Best of Marvin Gaye_ (a venue choice).  

Before he can say anything, Danny’s solid weight slams into his back, his spindly arms looping around his neck. “We fucking _owned_ that shit!” he exclaims, Matt’s barely managed a confused laugh before one of Danny’s arms reaches out.

“Fuck, _shit_ –” Jessica’s weight crushes against Matt’s. She smells like they all do – sweat, stale beer, soap from a rest stop bathroom – and she writhes against the pressure of Danny’s grasp.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Danny whisper-shouts. “Just love meee.”

There’s a rumbling laugh and then Luke’s strong grasp around them all, brief. “We definitely did that shit,” he says. The curse sounds so strange in Luke’s voice – regardless of the severity – that Danny releases Matt and Jessica in surprise.

There’s a beat, then Danny adds, “ _Hell yeah_ , we did! Tour forever!”

“Stab me in the eye with a fork,” Jessica mutters. “I need a break from you all for at least twenty-four hours.” Another pause. “But good work.”

Matt actually thinks he hears Danny sob.

“Nice job,” Claire says, appearing at Matt’s side. She slides an arm around his waist, easy, intimate.

“Hey,” Matt replies, his mouth turning up into a smile. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Claire’s cheek, leaning in a little too far to do it while he maps her out. But she’s steady against him.

“Hey yourself,” she says. Matt can feel her smile before he pulls back. “I have this,” she says, pressing his cane into his hand. She’s already unfolded it for him.

“Thanks,” he breathes.

“Wanna get out of here?” she asks, low.

Matt pauses, turns to his friends. Before he can even reply, Jessica is waving him off. “Go, go be cute, you’ll infect me if you’re nearby too long. I’ll bring your shit home.”

“Tha–”

She cuts him off. “Don’t mention it.”

Outside the venue, the city is symphonic around him. He can hear, muffled by the walls of the building, Leatherneck taking the stage. Claire’s footsteps alongside his. The streets – cars; shouts for taxis; people selling coffee, hot dogs, and knockoff designer handbags – and the small group of people outside the venue, chatting and smoking.

Matt slows to a stop at the end of the block, Claire stopping with him. Her hand is warm in his. He tilts his head back and breathes in deep. There’s the acidic scent of the city in late August: motor oil, food, yesterday’s rain, mingling with the scent of gentrified Brookyln: rooftop gardens filled with flowers and vegetables.

And Claire – lemongrass, mint, and her skin.  

“I missed this,” he whispers.

“Knew you’d miss this place more than me,” Claire teases, nudging his side.

“Brooklyn?” Matt scoffs. “Never.” He leans in and noses from her shoulder to her neck. He scrapes his teeth against the corner of her jaw. She sucks in a breath at the contact.

Then they’re moving again, Claire slipping in front of him, free hand sliding around his waist and up his back, to fist in his t-shirt between his shoulder blades. But they don’t kiss. She just holds him, pressing her head to his chest. “Missed you too,” she whispers, pressing her mouth to his sternum before slipping back. “Want to get some coffee?”

“Sure,” he says, easy.

They turn, starting down the sidewalk in the direction they came, towards the coffeeshop at the end of the block. She gets dark roast, black. He gets whatever’s cheap and dumps cream in it.

When they’re sitting outside, Matt trails his hand over Claire’s, re-familiarizing himself with the feeling of it. Where her skin pulls over her bones at her knuckles. The scar on her thumb from a scalpel. She lets him take her hands in his, quietly filling him in on the old-lady gossip from church.

He’s wrapped up in Claire; doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps, slow and purposeful. But he does recognize the voice that carefully says, “Hey, Matt.”

“Foggy,” Matt says, quiet, surprised. He tilts his head up. “Hey.”

Claire leans in and kisses Matt’s hairline. “I’m gonna go get more coffee.” Her voice is gentle, but pointed, when she adds, “I’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

Her chair scrapes on the cement when she gets up and leaves.

“So,” Foggy says, awkward. “How was tour?”

“Good,” Matt returns, equally uncomfortable. He hates this. He hates this so much, because he knows what’s coming; knows what he has to say. He’s made his decision – made in a church yard standing next to Frank Castle.

He opens his mouth to speak, despite the thick lump in his throat.

But Foggy beats him to it.

“Look,” he says, sighing. “I was an asshole.” Matt stills. “I was being – selfish, I think. Probably. Most likely. Because I wanted it to be like it was before, you know? When we were in college and hyped up on, like, Red Bull and Thurgood Marshall. Before El –”

“Foggy, you don’t have to –” Matt tries cutting him off.

“I do,” Foggy insists and something cracks and shatters in Matt’s chest. “But. You’ve been… Matt, you’ve been happier than I’ve ever seen you, even before –” this time, he doesn’t try to say her name, “– you know. And I – I want you to be happy, Matt.”

Matt’s glad he’s sitting, because he feels like he’s been punched in the chest. He doesn’t know what to do with _this_. He’s spent days, maybe even secretly _weeks_ , preparing for an argument with Foggy. For the fissure that’s emerged in their foundation to crack wide, wide open and become an impassable gulf.

“I – thank you, Fog,” he breathes. It doesn’t feel anywhere near adequate enough. “I thought that we –”

“We’re family dude,” Foggy says, immediate. The ache in Matt’s chest grows warm. Painful and _good_ in a way he can’t articulate.

“Foggy,” he breathes. His throat is tight. _Jesus_.

“Come up here buddy,” Foggy says, and Matt can _hear_ that smile. It washes over Matt. “We’re hugging it out. It’s time.”

Matt gets up and Foggy’s arms are immediately around him. Matt’s hands wrap in Foggy’s shirt. He smells like hemp soap, the most familiar scent of all to Matt.

“I’m still applying to law school, though,” Foggy says when they pull back. “Somebody’s gotta negotiate your record contracts.”

Matt laughs until Claire comes back outside, a coffee for her and another for Foggy. Then he laughs some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay!!! everyone's made up!!! i promised, right? i feel obligated to make a note, frank has permanent brain damage from being shot in the head. when he refers to himself as a 'headcase', it's him reclaiming the word for himself. obviously, we'll be getting to more of that in the companion fic, however i felt like it should be addressed here. 
> 
> if you go [here](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/post/165093345815/the-defenders-band-au-instagram-edition), you can view karen and danny's instagram feeds from tour. [here](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/post/165099462513/they-open-with-a-newer-song-the-one-dannys-been) you can view some of karen's tour photography. [here](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/post/165093765585/danny-rands-ultimate-tour-mix-for-when-you-pile) you can listen to danny rand's ultimate tour driving mix.
> 
> the beta squad, as always, has my heartfelt thanks. [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/) endless thank yous and jon gifs for nitpicking, pitching music, photo editing, and making sure that frank is exactly who he's supposed to be. (anyone who likes frank here, you have sadie to thank. i'm serious.) [sam](http://matriarchal.tumblr.com/) thank you, thank you, thank you for putting up with me while i stay up writing this fic, for letting me talk about it constantly, and figuring out exactly how jess would refer to mcr. [abbey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo/), thanks for letting me borrow your hometown. rip asbury lanes, i hope you come back to us soon.
> 
> so, full disclosure & a note on update times: i have started classes again. i'm trying my best to get this fic finished up soon, but updates might come a little slower (think 4-5 day turnaround, as opposed to 2-3). ya pal here's gotta study their latin. and start a thesis. (seven syllable groan.) but i am around on [tumblr](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/) as one does.


	8. you and i are stuck out of phase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which: danny gets his hug, there is a return, someone gets laid, and matt murdock makes stupid life choices.
> 
> musical notes: the black sky song referenced is actually "spirit desire" by tigers jaw

Playing The Chaste, weirdly enough, is when Matt finally feels like he’s come home. 

It’s in the creak of the stage under his worn shoes. The smell of beer and lemon cleaner he catches when Claire’s wiping down the bar top while they soundcheck. The sound of the ceiling fans, humming in the late August heat. It’s Frank’s cracked voice in his monitors, telling him when their levels are in the clear. It’s the way he knows exactly how to step up onto the stage when it’s time for their set.

They play that Friday, after a week of work that Matt had felt – detached from, if he was being honest. The fervor and excitement of casework involving serving financial assets, covering Big Pharma’s ass, and protecting business interests had finally lost its last vestiges of appeal.

Yet, he’s busy enough with catching up on Landman and Zack memos that he only manages to see Claire on their Thursday afternoon at the food pantry in the church basement on 36th street. He spends most of his time working and catching up on sleep.

By Friday, Matt’s aching to play again.

There’s some other bands opening for them, so The Defenders (and what Danny has – unfortunately – taken to calling their _entourage_ in group texts) take over their booth at the back of the bar, listening with half amusement and half sympathy as one of the openers tries to reason with Frank about feedback from a monitor.

“Danny,” Jessica starts, something like concern folded into her voice. Matt inclines his head. “What are you doing?”

“Snapchatting.”

“What?” Luke says.

“It’s a social network, where you post photo and video upda – hey!”

There’s a scuffling sound; a knock of hands, something landing with a _thud_ on the table and then being dragged across it. “No,” Jessica says, flat.

“Jess, my _phone_ –”

“Nope, privileges revoked.” Danny makes a keening sound.

Next to Matt, Foggy snorts into his beer. It pulls the corner of Matt’s mouth up into a grin.

Their set flies in a raucous triumphant blur. There’s something different, about it – about _them_ – when they climb onto the stage. Maybe it’s just Matt. But he feels it. He feels it in the way that Danny’s synth curls around Jessica’s drum beat, filling in the hollows of sound left behind by the heavy weight of her sticks coming down on snare, hihats, and toms.

It’s in the way he can feel Luke’s bass in the rhythm of his own blood, as he leans into the mic and sings, “ _Lit me up and I burn from the inside out, yeah, I burn like a witch in a Puritan town_.”

Matt feels _good._ He’s grinning when they slide into _Mene._  He bends in half over his guitar, fingers flying over his pick-ups, racing alongside Jessica’s drum roll, breathless as he fights to keep up. They push the song to its limits – rough, defiant, _fast_ – until it’s time for Matt to snap upright, to growl into the mic.

They weave space into the songs – something that seems to just _happen_ , with the perfect slip of Matt’s hands over his frets as Danny ties in a new loop. When Luke slides into the space with his bass, Matt grins in the direction of the sound, turning towards it.

Luke’s scent – something warm, spices like clove and cinnamon – inches in close and then his solid weight is bearing into Matt’s shoulder, their knuckles nearly knocking together as they play off each other.

He’s breathless when the set ends, his heart racing in his chest. When he tugs out his monitors, Matt can hear whistles, cheering – not just from Foggy, Claire, Trish, and Colleen at the bar.

“Fuck _yes_ ,” Danny groans, leaning into Matt when they’ve stepped off the stage. He’s still wearing his shirt; though Matt can feel where it hangs open.

“Shit, I’ve missed this place,” Jessica says, her boots thudding on the ground next to Matt when she hops off the stage. “No where to _drive_ after this. I can get as drunk as I want. It’s perfect.”

Matt laughs, despite the crack of worry over Jessica. The overwhelming _joy_ he feels eclipses that.

It doesn’t last longer than another beat, for Matt about to say _I love a simple woman_ , teasing, before that feeling shatters. It takes two words, lyrical as they roll off her tongue:

“Hello, Matthew.”

Matt feels all of the air leave his body. It’s yanked from his lungs with a sharp and painful fist. His chest actually hurts, with the way his heart slams so furiously into his ribs. He can’t speak; he can’t move. His nostrils fill with the scent of fine, French perfume.

Before he finds a way to speak, to breathe, to _exist_ , Jessica snaps, “Hi!”  The sound of her voice is so brittle in its kindness, so forcefully welcoming, Matt can only imagine the severity of Jessica’s facial expression. “Who’re you?”

He recovers, just in time, clearing his throat, trying to expel the aftertaste of her perfume. (It’s the same as it was in college; almost like smoke. Orchids. Expensive.)  “This is Elektra.” His voice is – flat. Devoid of feeling.

He can’t – Matt swallows. He can smell her _everywhere_ : patchouli and sandalwood digging into his skin like hooks.

She hums at Jessica’s question – the cool, disaffected sound she makes when sizing someone up. He knows the sound well; it’s another hook wrapped around his spine. “Matthew and I,” her voice purrs around his name, _Matthieu_ , “are old friends.”

Oh. Oh, _fuck_ , no.

That’s what she wants to call them? The ragged, broken edges inside him shake with fury. No, no, no they're not friends. They never were friends.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks. Jessica shifts her weight next to him – Matt can hear the shuffle of her boots on the sticky bar floor.

“You’ve never been hard to find,” she replies, light, breezy, the barest ache of flirtation teasing out into her voice. It slides over Matt’s chest like a knife-edge.

That’s – Matt twinges at that. If he wasn’t hard to find, then why now, why here, why –

“Your band’s quite good,” she continues, musical, easy. “Pity about the clothes, though.”

Matt’s jaw clenches. “Hey –” Jessica begins to snarl.

Matt reaches out with the hand not tightly wrapped around his cane, touching her elbow. He can’t – he doesn’t –

“What’re you doing here, Elektra?”

“Would you believe it if I said I missed you?”

Matt feels bile in his throat.

“Matt!” Foggy calls, bright, just a bit further off. He turns his head to the sound, his heart slamming, triple-time. _Christ_ , he doesn’t need this – doesn’t need Foggy walking toward him now, with _Elektra_ in front of him, who Matt is _sure_ is also turning to the sound of Foggy’s voice.

“Hello, Franklin,” Elektra purrs.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Foggy says, coming to a stop on Matt’s other side. He can _feel_ the possessive note in Foggy’s voice. He leans in close to Matt. “You have a lot of nerve –”

Matt can feel Jessica, shifting beside him too and it’s – Matt’s –

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says, low, rough. “I’ve got this.” He breathes in, sucking air down and steels himself. He has to do this, has to do it now, before it gets worse – before _Claire_ gets involved, before Elektra can force herself into a conversation _with_ her or _about_ her like an insidious wedge. 

“C’mon,” Matt says darkly. His teeth grind together. He steps forward. He’s able to map out exactly where she is – every part of her habits, her mannerism, are burned into his memory like brands – and wraps his hand around her bicep. She’s wearing short sleeves, a tank top, something, because Matt hand wraps around strong, supple flesh. (She still does capoeira, then.) “It’s time for you to go.”

 

* * *

 

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Jessica snarls as Matt drags off Elektra.  

He’d mentioned her name just the once, his bruised knuckles resting on his knees as they talked about Kilgrave. He’d only said her name, said that she’d been his own stupid choice. When she’d tried to see what she could find – in archives, Columbia records, basically anything short of getting truly _invasive_ – there was nothing.

Which doesn’t happen, really.

And makes all of _that_ all the more weird. And unnerving.

She doesn’t know who little miss art school goth is, with her leather fucking pants and layered, expensive jewelry but she _knows_ Matt. And that set to his jaw, the one where he clenches his teeth and the bone pops, just a little, is enough to make all of Jessica’s internal alarm bells go off.

“That,” Foggy sighs, “was Elektra.” He’s staring at the front door that closes behind Matt and Elektra as they walk out of the bar.

Jessica rolls her eyes. “No shit,” she says. “What’s her deal?”

She watches the way Foggy’s gaze tries to track Matt and Elektra through one of the bar’s front windows. When that doesn’t work, his gaze slides back towards Claire, working at the bar. She’s busy, tonight. Their show had been – packed. And a moment ago, that was enough to have Jessica wired with a triumphant current running through her. But now – it’s washed away.

“Hey,” Danny says, walking up with Colleen – they’ve switched clothes in the last fifteen minutes, apparently. Jessica would normally roll her eyes; tease them. But – even fucking Danny looks confused. “Who was that Matt just left with?”

Foggy sighs again, this time more pained. He fists his hands together and wrings them. “Matt’s ex,” he says.

“Oh, shit,” Danny says. Jessica looks at him carefully. It’s a shockingly astute observation for him.

 

* * *

 

Elektra’s heels click on the concrete, double time as Matt tugs them away from the bar – away from his band, his friends, from _Claire_. She doesn’t even speak as they storm off, which is maybe more infuriating than anything else about all of this. Because – what? She came back, back to New York, back to the Kitchen, to torture him with – silence? 

His cane _tap, tap, tap_ s against the sidewalk and he jerks them to a stop once they’re at the end of the block.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, vehement.

“Come on, Matthew,” she says, sighing, playful, as if this were a game. (It probably is.) “I already said. I missed you.”

“After five years?” he laughs, cold, bitter. “I don’t believe you.”

“Ah,” she returns, dry. “Columbia education really paid off.”

Matt snorts and lets go of her, setting his free hand on his hips. “No thanks to you,” he mutters before continuing, angry, “Look – if you came here to walk down memory lane,” he shrugs, vague and furious. “I don’t really have the –”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, cutting him off.

Matt doesn’t breathe.

“I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that things happen for a reason,” she says, quiet and soft. Matt tightens his grip on his cane, thumb twirling around the loop of leather at the top – the only part of him that seems able to move.

Elektra continues, voice quiet with some unmeasured emotion that buries itself deep inside Matt’s chest, “That you and I were not meant to be. But I know now. That wasn't fate. It was a choice.”

The fragile sense of hurt he’d felt, for a brief moment, shatters.

“ _Your_ choice,” he reminds her, anger leaking back into his tone. She left _him._ She made the choices she made. He was, always had been, loyal to her. Good to her. Loved her with every useless part of himself. Loved her more than music, more than school, more than God.

“Yes,” she confirms, quiet.

Matt feels the word knock through his ribcage, like a stone falling through an empty well.

“And I'm sorry.”

 _I’m sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry_. The word ricochets off every bone in his body. _Sorry, sorry, sorry_.

“I'm alone in the world, Matthew,” she continues. Her voice is hushed, even – _meek_. It’s not a tone he has ever heard her use. “Do you know what that feels like?”

And there it is – there’s the flaw in the code. That she still – even after all these years, can still think that he doesn’t understand shit. That somehow, her poor little rich girl world is filled with more tragedy than his own. He scoffs. “Do you really have to ask me that?”

She sucks in a breath. The sound is so achingly familiar. Matt can hear it in all of his memories: as she drinks him under the table at some ridiculous event her family is throwing; when she decides to ride the subway with him for the _novelty_ of it; on his old college futon as he curls two fingers inside her.

“I – of course you know how it feels,” she mutters, subdued. “I…” She sighs. One click of heels on concrete. She closes in – her perfume, orchids and smoke and all the things that Matt used to ache for, used to look for when he would walk through spaces they’d shared together. Her breath is cool across his face. “I missed you. Because you’re the only person I could ever trust.”

Matt scoffs again, bitter, and leans back. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, cold and shaking his head. “You don’t get to come here and talk to me about trust.”

“Don’t –” she starts, louder, now.

“Get out of my city,” he says, shaking his head and starting towards home.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Jessica calls when she slams the door to the loft shut. “We all thought we were past the whole, you ghosting on literally everyone after a show.” 

They’d packed it up early, after Matt left with Elektra. And Jess is – worried. So’s everyone else, really. She doesn’t want to think about the way that Claire had looked, asking where Matt was. The way Foggy had replied with a thin, flimsy, _uh, he wasn’t feeling too good_. She doesn’t like the way that everyone knew it was a lie.

And she certainly didn’t like the eye contact Danny had made with her. What the fuck is her life even coming to, sharing a secret with Danny Rand.

She walks into the loft. Matt’s at the counter, drinking her goddamn whiskey. He’s changed, shorts and a new t-shirt. Looks like he’s showered, too, the way his hair is damply curling over his ears. He’s not wearing his glasses.

“Dick move,” she says, going past him into the kitchen proper. She grabs a glass from the dish rack before sitting down next him and pouring herself a drink. 

“I didn’t mean to –” he starts.

“I don’t care,” she replies. She downs the first drink, trying to stomach the push of concern and worry and anger she feels down, deep, deep into her core. “But you should call Claire. Let her know you’re alright.”

“Shit,” he breathes. “I –”

“Yeah, you didn’t think,” Jess finishes. “I know that line.” She reaches for the bottle again. Pours another glass.

“So,” she says, looking over at him. “You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

“No,” he mutters, because he’s an asshole.

“Too bad,” she says and tilts the bottle towards his glass, topping it off. “Because you’re going to.”

Matt sighs, the sound pained, frustrated. “It’s. I don’t know –” he waves his hand in the air and it takes all of Jessica’s self control to keep from snapping _just fucking tell me_. Because she’s not going to judge him, shitting Christ’s asshole.

“We dated in college,” he shrugs, the motion jerky, forceful. “We had a band together. She wanted things I couldn’t do. She found them elsewhere.”

Jessica’s not a fucking idiot. She knows when to stop pushing. There’s so much more there.

The band’s new information, though. Jesus, no wonder his friend had been so wide-eyed when they’d met; when Matt had said they were playing together.

Despite the angry edge that pushes against her skin, something heavy shifts in Jess’s chest. It’s a surge of protectiveness. One that comes up for Trish, when her mom calls; for Luke, when he says he’s gotten a letter from his brother. And, now, for Matt. 

Christ. She drains the rest of her whiskey.

 

* * *

 

Matt doesn’t leave his room until after Jessica’s left on Saturday. (To get mimosa drunk with Trish, he thinks. They have a standing reservation at some hole in the wall on Saturday mornings.) She takes Clint with her, because she says she deserves a dog for the day. 

He knows he’s sulking. That he’s being childish. But he’s unable to help himself. Last night had – thrown him. He spends what little sleep he gets restless, dreaming of Elektra’s skin, Elektra’s taste, the sound of her voice with his – _oh, I’m not bored at all, you can call me when you want to_. It’s the first time he’s dreamed of her in years.

It shouldn’t be this way. Matt knows that. But he’s powerless to stop the way the old wounds he’d thought well-scarred and healed feel like scabs being torn open again.

The sound of her voice. The smell of her perfume. The feeling of her skin against his as he’d pulled her from The Chaste.

( _I’d give it all up for a lifetime of smelling your skin_.)

When he hears the door shut behind Jessica, he allows himself to slip into the loft, to stumble into the kitchen and drink orange juice straight from the carton. His head feels heavy and he can feel the point of pressure behind his left eye, splitting his head open. He’d slept like shit, too.

It’s not his worst hangover. But he feels like Grade A shit. Even worse when he directs his phone to read off his missed calls – two from Jessica, four from Foggy, and five from Claire.

Shit.

Matt scrubs his face with one hand and starts water for tea. There’s too much shit to think about and all he wants to do is either stand in the shower for seven hours or get buried deep below the city in rubble. It’s a not a coffee kind of day.

It’s of course, that moment, when he hears a knocking on the door. For a brief, horrible moment, he thinks it’s Elektra on the other side and he stays, paralyzed, with one hand wrapped around the kitchen counter.

Until he hears Claire, calling, “Matt? You in there?”

 _Shit_.

He tries to speak, but nothing comes out. Matt forces his throat clear, slowly making his way to the door. “Coming,” he calls back. He should have called her when Jessica told him to. 

Guilty, Matt presses his head to the door for just a brief, brief moment. He tries to steel himself – to come up with anything, any excuse or any story that sounds better than _my ex showed up and I left the bar with her_.

Then Claire raps on the door again and he sucks in a breath before tugging it open. “Hey, Claire,” he says lamely.

“Hey,” she replies, the edge of reserve in her voice clear as day to him. There’s a beat. “Foggy said you were sick,” she says. He can hear her weight shift. Can smell her lemongrass and mint scent, stronger than the curl of antibacterial soap. There’s a crinkle as she shifts – a paper bag, one that smells of chicken noodle – onions, parsley, broth. “I brought soup and medical expertise.”

“I – uh, thank you,” he says, swallowing as he steps back, holding the door open wide so she can come in. Her hand knocks against his as she passes him. Matt feels an ache, dull in his chest. 

He follows her in, making sure the door’s shut behind him. Matt counts his steps as he trails his fingers along the wall, trying to keep from thinking too much. Trying to keep from thinking about the sound of Claire moving in his kitchen, pulling his now-whistling kettle off the stove; the clanking of ceramic as she sets a mug on the counter; the utensil drawer rattling.

“So,” she says, a little forced, when he pads into the kitchen. “Let’s see you, then.” She steps forward, her hand touching his when she stops in front of him.

Matt stays quiet, head ducked in shame.

Claire spreads one palm over his forehead, then down over his cheek. Then the other. “No fever,” she says, quiet. Her hand comes up and pinches his jaw. “Open up.” There’s a clicking sound when he does as she asks. Another click. “Nothing there either.”

She sighs, dropping her hands from him and he can feel her weight shift; the fabric of her shirt moving against skin – she’s crossing her arms.

“So,” Claire says, purposeful and slow. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

He’d had a plan – though loose and horrible – to lie, but. That’s the problem. He’s never been able to lie to Claire. And the edge to her voice only makes the idea of lying all the more impossible.

Matt sighs, pulling his mouth tight, wrapping his lips around his teeth, before finally exhaling. “Elektra was at the show last night.”

“Jesus, Matt,” she breathes. Her hand comes up and pushes back his hair. Matt leans into the touch, pathetic and relieved. “I thought you said she left New York?”

He sighs again. “I guess she came back.”

Claire exhales. She’s quiet for a long moment, long enough that the air feels thick with whatever it is she’s not saying. Her hand is still in Matt’s hair. Her thumb works over his temple. “You doing okay?” she asks, finally.

He forces himself to nod. “Yeah, I’m good,” he lies.

( _I’m sorry_ , he hears, again and again and again and again and again. He can’t stop thinking about it. Her voice had been so low, so quiet. There was a weight there, in her voice, in those words, that Matt had never heard from her for the two years they were together.

Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ with her apology. He’s carrying it, the weight of it so heavy he thinks he could stumble at any second.)

“Yeah?” Claire asks, half-laughing – she doesn’t believe him. Her hand cards through his hair, then down his neck and shoulder. He feels electricity under his skin at her touch. Her fingers are tender.

“Now that you’re here, yeah,” he says, tilting his head a little, as he nods towards her. He feels warmth begin to inch back into his body as her fingers trail down from his shoulder, over the curve of his bicep, press into the sensitive skin of his elbow, and down further, towards his wrist.

He means what he says.

And Claire chuckles, quiet. “You use that on all the girls?” she teases, her fingers quirking lazily over the thin skin of his wrist, up and down along the veins.

The ghost of a laugh escapes him. “Only you,” he returns, equally quiet. She’s the only woman he’s ever wanted around since Elektra. There’d been others, one night stands, a drunken kiss in a bar bathroom. But no one that ever made it here, into his apartment. No one he could listen to for hours. No one like Claire.

“Good,” she replies and Matt can picture the way her smile spreads slowly across her face in tandem with the slow stretch of the word. Claire leans up, her chest pressing against his, and Matt leans down in time, allowing himself this.

She’s warm against him. Claire’s mouth moves slowly, deliberate against his, pulling his bottom lip between her own.

Matt sinks into the kiss – into _Claire_. The sharp, clean taste of mint in her mouth. The way she smells this close, the scent of lemongrass like summer, overwhelming. The way her fingers lace through his own, tips pressing into the hollows of flesh between his knuckles. The push of her tongue, velveteen, against his when she licks inside his mouth. Matt flicks his tongue against the underside of hers, teasing out the sensitive flesh.

His thoughts shift, finally, baited by Claire’s mouth against his, the way her breath comes in quick little pants against his lips. His free hand tugs on her hip, pulling her flush to his body. She’s so _warm_.  

Claire’s chest heaves when Matt tilts his head, changing the angle of the kiss to push his tongue deeper. He teases the ridges at the roof of her mouth, mind reciting a litany of _Claire, Claire, Claire_. His hand slides up from her waist to spread in the middle of her back, fingertips pressing against shoulder blades that move under her thin t-shirt.

He shifts his weight and presses into her until her feet shuffle back. He knows this room and when her hips collide with the countertop, their kiss breaking on a surprised gasp from Claire, Matt laughs. He slides his hand from her back, down, to spread around her ribs. He can feel the expansion and collapse of her chest under his hand.

“You planning on making up for last night?” she asks, throaty.

Matt feels a shiver run down his spine.

They haven’t – they haven’t had sex, not yet. And that’s been intentional, on both their parts. Taking it slow. But then he’d come back from tour and she’d said that she was done waiting…

God, Matt’s an idiot, isn’t he?

“If you’ll let me,” Matt breathes, leaning in so close that their noses knock together.

Claire gives his hand a squeeze, tight, before dropping it. Instead, she drapes her arms over his shoulders, turning up her wrists to curl her fingers in the hair at the base of his skull. “Think I might,” she murmurs back.

Matt presses his mouth to hers to feel the smirk that’s spreading across her face. He drags his tongue along the seam of her lips until she’s parting them for him.

His hand slides up her chest – careful – and Matt drags his thumb along the supple curve of her breast. She shivers under his touch and Matt pulls her bottom lip between his teeth, working over the kiss-swollen flesh as his hand moves over her breast.

He can tell whatever bra she’s wearing isn’t thick because her nipple peaks under his thumb when he swipes over it and that sends a push of heavy, powerful desire down his spine. He moans, the sound muffled by their kissing, as Claire arches her chest up into his touch. Matt’s other hand moves to her waist, pushing up the hem of her shirt so he can circle his thumb over the jut of Claire’s hipbone.

Claire’s nails scrape against his scalp, sending licks of heat to the oil slick of _want_ pooling in his middle. When she tilts her head to lick into his mouth, one hand leaving his hair and trailing down, down his back, Matt shivers at the touch. He palms at her breast, the weight of her flesh hot against his palm, even with the barrier of her cotton t-shirt between them.

Her tongue twists against his, drawing a moan from him as she curls the tip against his teeth. Matt’s hand at her hip pushes up, up the smooth expanse of skin at her stomach between them. He can feel the way her skin prickles at his touch, the jump in the muscles of her midsection.

She breaks the kiss. The sound of her sucking in a breath fills Matt’s ears. His own chest heaves.

“Here.” Claire leans back, her skin slipping out of Matt’s touch, just barely. But he can feel her move, hears the slough of fabric; her shirt hitting the countertop.

Her hand wraps around his wrist then, thumb pressing into his pulse point. Matt’s sure she can feel his heart racing, the heat in his bloodstream that wants and wants. “Claire,” he whispers as she pulls his hand back to her breast.

Under his palm is the silken feeling of her sports bra and he rolls his thumb out, smoothing it over her nipple. She gasps at the touch, her fingers pressing tight into the delicate skin of Matt’s wrist. 

He pushes his kiss-tender tongue against the inside of his cheek. He can taste her mouth everywhere, the mint leaves she chews, the vague, barely-there taste of her morning coffee.

Matt ducks his head, lets himself find the exposed line of Claire’s collarbone. It juts against her skin and he breathes in deep, letting her scent (lemongrass, a flash of summer sweat, _Claire_ ) wash over him. He presses his mouth to the hollow of her throat. “Do you want to go to bed?” he asks, whispering into her skin.

“I really thought I’d have to spell it out for you,” she teases, pulling her free hand up over his shoulder and into his hair. She gives it a sharp tug and Matt straightens up, unable to help but smile crookedly at her.

She picks up her discarded shirt from the counter and walks to his bedroom in silence, their hands laced together. Matt’s aware of his heart beating a furious rhythm against his ribs. But he finds he’s not worried at all. 

Not worried when Claire gives his hand a squeeze before letting go and setting her shirt down on top of his dresser. Not worried when he hears the sound of her shoes hitting the floor. Or at the sound of a zipper, the change in her pockets shaking, as she tugs off her shorts.

He pulls his own t-shirt off by the collar, tossing it into the hamper – he’s not even changed from what he slept in, still just wearing his boxers.

When Claire’s finished she barks out a laugh. “Oh my god.”

Matt frowns, worry finally cracking his chest. “What?” he asks. They’re still standing on opposite sides of the room.

“ _You_ ,” she says, laughing again. Her feet pad, quiet and bare, across the wood floor. Her fingers press into his abdomen; dragging up and down in the lines of his muscle. She’s still laughing. “I knew you went to your dad’s old gym but I didn’t think –”

Matt feels the flush crawl up the back of his neck. He lets out a sheepish chuckle. “I don’t just go for the sights,” he manages. He aches for something to do with his hands.

He decides to push a hand through Claire’s hair, fingertips tracing over the stubble of her undercut. It’s starting to grow out again, turning peach fuzz into something downier.

“Foggy’ll spot for me sometimes,” he admits, feeling strangely shy.

(It’s – familiar and nice, to be in the spaces he shared with his dad. And the physicality of it, lifting weights or hitting the bags, it gives him the space he needs to work out the ugly twists of anger he feels, the ones that move through his mind like the _tap tap tapping_ of Stick’s cane against the side of his head.

He hasn’t been in a while, though; busier, happier, playing music with The Defenders in Luke’s apartment, on the stage at The Chaste or any of the other dozen or so places they’ve played in the last month.)

“I’m not complaining,” Claire says, her laughter dying as she leans up on her toes to kiss him. Her hands spread flat over his chest when she does. The kiss is brief, an easy press of her mouth against Matt’s before she sinks back down.

Her hands take his then and she walks them the rest of the way to his bed.

The mattress creaks when she sits back on it and Matt breathes out a nervous, excited laugh. He lets go of her hands to climb onto the bed. One hand wraps around Claire’s hip, to steady himself as he settles between her legs.

“Hey,” he whispers, bringing his other hand down to stroke his knuckles over her cheek.

Claire turns her head at the touch, catching his wrist against her mouth. He shivers.

“Hey yourself,” she replies, equally low. Her leg shifts on the bed, bending at the knee. He can hear her foot rubbing against his sheets. She breathes out a laugh. “Are your sheets _silk_?”

He chuckles, ducking his head. Matt’s nose catches on her shoulder when he does. “Cotton’s like sandpaper on my skin.”

Claire buries one hand in his hair, tugging his mouth closer to hers. “Well, it works,” she mumbles, before kissing him again.

Their bodies tangle together, a rising tempo of desire pounding in Matt’s veins.

It centers in his core, coiling hot around the base of his spine as Claire’s knee presses against his hip, keeping him close to her.

Matt’s hand slides from hers to trace back over the curve of her breast. He palms up its swell, gaining confidence, less tentative as he scrapes his nail just below her nipple. She gasps at that, teeth catching on his bottom lip.  Her hand wraps around his hip and tugs, pinky and ring finger pressing just hard enough into the curve of his ass to make Matt shift into the minute touch.

When the kiss shatters, Claire dragging his lip out with her teeth until they part, Matt weaves his fingers into Claire’s hair (silky soft, draped across his pillows). She moves her hand lower, down under his arm to curve against his shoulder.

He bows his head and drags the flat of his tongue along the pulse point in her neck. He can feel her heart rate, skin jumping at his touch. She tastes wonderful, sweet. When he closes his mouth over the juncture where her neck and shoulder meet, her nails prick into the skin at his shoulder and scratch down. Matt groans, his throat tightening with pleasurepain at the sudden sharpness. The sensation sends a shock of arousal through him that goes straight to his boxers. 

Claire laughs when his hips shift and Matt can feel the sound of it, moving around in her chest like an animal. It’s low, throaty, and he moves to nose at the line of her sports bra, able to tuck his ear to her chest at the same time.

She does it again, this time scratching up his shoulder. He doesn’t have to hear her speak or feel her face to know she’s smirking when she does it; he _knows_ her.

He gets her back, grinning when he pushes his nose against the line of her bra, drops his hand from her hair and finds the strap at her shoulder, pulling it down until her breast spills out from the cotton. He cups his palm around it and lifts it up into his mouth, tongue swirling over her pebbled nipple.

“ _Oh_ ,” Claire moans, her grip on his hip slipping lower, palm curving around his ass.

Matt hums around her skin, tasting just a bit of salt and the lavender of her detergent against his tongue. He scrapes his teeth against the inner swell of her breast, his jaw smoothing along her sternum.

Claire squeezes his ass, dragging his hips up against the mattress just as she arches her own and the head of Matt’s cock, straining at his boxers now, brushes between her legs.

“Oh, _Christ,_ ” he curses against her chest, breathless. Even through their underwear he can tell she’s _wet_ ; her hips roll again, Claire’s hand on his ass doing all the work for him before Matt can even react. She rocks their hips together again, the slide of his dick against her damp cunt slower, more intentional this time. The slick fabric between them does little to ease the building pressure he feels just below his navel.

He mouths at her again, fervid, and leaves another bruise before laving his tongue over her breast. Her fingers furl and unfurl against the swell of his ass and he hopes she leaves a mark, one he can press his fingers against later, when he eventually jerks off in the shower, remembering this.

She rolls their hips together again; Matt keys into the rhythm she likes, thrusts down as she arches up. It draws a loud cry from her, high-pitched, keening.

“Claire,” he whispers into her skin. “ _Claire_.” God, he wants. There’s not enough contact between them, the damp of her cotton briefs and his flannel boxers (not just from her, but from his own dick, leaking precome at the head) offering next to no relief.

His other hand trails from her breast, down her side, to trace the pads of his fingers against the waist of her underwear. “Claire,” he breathes again, unable to close his mind around the right words. “Claire – can I –”

He feels her hair tickle his forehead as she nods. “Yeah, fuck, _Matt_ –” her voice is thin, nearly shattering on his name and that makes his hips twitch, he’s so full up with want for her.

Matt hooks his fingers in the waist of her briefs and tugs them down as far as he can without actually having to untangle their bodies, leaving them gathered somewhere at her thighs, just enough space for Matt to reach between her legs and quirk his index finger against her swollen clit.

“ _Claire_ ,” he breathes, as she sighs, “ _Fuck_.”

She’s _dripping_ , her cunt slick all around his fingers as her hips roll, trying to pull him closer for more, more, more. And Matt groans at the sensation, the way he can feel her clit twitch when she sucks in a breath. Her nails press, hard, into his skin. He shifts, dropping his other hand from her chest so he can brace his forearm against the bed and adjust the angle of his wrist.

Claire gasps when he does, using two fingers to press between her folds, fingertips spreading around the edges of her entrance. He can feel her pulse, as if she’s trying to take him inside herself. He thrusts down against the mattress, trying to quell the desperation he feels building up his spine.

“Claire,” Matt breathes, dragging his mouth against her sternum. “Claire.”

“ _Matt_ ,” she replies, ragged, “I swear to _God_ , if you don’t –”

He doesn’t let her finish, twisting one finger up inside her.

Claire’s _soft_ around him, slick, taking his finger inside with a sharp gasp that tears open the air around them. He can feel her body roll into the touch, the pad of his second finger teasing back and forth over where he’s buried inside her.

“ _Matt_ ,” she repeats. She exhales, heavy, her legs spreading wider around him, her knee dropping from where it’s pressed against his hip. She digs her fingers into the curve of his ass.

He crooks his finger inside her and Claire rolls into the touch, eager and clenching, trying to take more, more. Matt buries a groan against her ribs. “ _Jesus_ , Claire,” he groans.

When he slides his finger out of her, wet, he thrusts back in with two.

She cries out again, muffled this time. He can hear her writhe on the sheets; she’s mouthing at his pillow. Matt inhales, hard, teeth scraping against the side of her chest when he does. She’s becoming impossibly tighter around him; he can feel her muscles begin to go taut, the way her hips roll to meet his fingers when he thrusts them in and out of her, careful to curl them against her cervix when he’s pressed all the way inside. 

He hasn’t felt this good in years.

Matt licks a line up the center of Claire’s chest, slowly teasing his fingers in and out of her – curling them just before he pulls out of her to push them in again, stretching her open. Her breath comes in shallow gasps as he draws her up, up.

“More,” she breathes, dropping one of her hands from where she’s moved to tangle it in his hair.  Her nails thrill down his back and Matt shivers as she catches skin before settling on the other side of his ass. “ _Matt_ ,” she urges, clutching. 

He thrusts back inside her with three, thumb flicking against her clit.

She’s not ready for it, he can tell that much. Claire cries out, her voice going high, breathless and hotter than anything Matt’s heard in his _life_. Her hips roll down against his fingers as he spreads two, just a little, inside her. He can feel her clench, and –

“ _Fuck_ , Matt,” she shouts, body canting up against his. He manages drag his tongue over the peak of her breast just as she starts to come, hard, as he works his fingers inside her.  

He strokes her through it, and shifts on the bed to catch her mouth with his. It’s a rough kiss, a scrape of teeth over his bottom lip until she’s sucking his tongue against her own, moaning desperately into his mouth. They kiss as she comes down, Matt’s thumb working over her clit even as she pulses with the dregs of her orgasm.

Claire thuds back against the bed. “Wow,” she breathes.

Matt, painfully aware of the fact that he’s so hard the head of his cock is literally peeking over the waist of his boxers, pulls out of her slowly. His hand’s dripping, the sheets under her soaked. Claire laughs as he rocks back onto his knees, breathless.

“Worth the wait?” Matt asks, unable to keep from smiling down at her. He can smell her come everywhere, earthy, damp, a little tart. It’s fucking incredible. _Claire_. He brings his fingers to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them. Oh, fuck. He moans at her taste. God, licking her clean will be good.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Claire breathes.

Matt pulls his fingers from his mouth with a wet _pop_. “Matthew, actually.”

“Asshole,” Claire counters, laughing. “C’mere.” She doesn’t wait for a reply, instead she hooks a leg around his waist and leverages him down. He falls over her with a laugh, forearms bracing on either side of her.

Before he’s able to  pull her mouth to his, Claire shifts their weight, rolling them over. The air is knocked out of Matt’s chest as he lands on his back. Claire lands over him, her cotton briefs still on, though tugged up now. She rolls her hips over his tented boxers.

He groans, head rolling back on the pillow. “Oh, _Christ_ , Claire –”

She snickers and shifts, her weight settling on his thighs as she tugs on the waist of his boxers, pulling his cock free. Her hands are hot, soft against his skin. Matt can barely breathe. He moans when he hears her spit into her hand. He has – in his nightstand, but – he can’t form words, nothing but _Claire_ , and it doesn’t matter because she’s wrapping her hand around the base of his cock anyway. Matt’s hips rock up into her hand.

Claire pulls her hand up his length, thumb pressing down hard on the vein in his cock as she does. He’s breathless, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood. She thumbs over the slit of his dick when she gets to his head, smearing precome down over him. Matt gasps, whispering her name into the pillow again and again.

His hips thrust up into her hand when she wraps it around his length again, this time pulling down, palm slick with her spit, his precome. It’s just the right amount of pressure, set at odds with the sharp, quick pain he feels when she curls her nails into his thigh.

It draws a sharp inhale from him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I’m – I’m.” He’s so goddamn close he can’t even put words to it. He feels fire licking up his spine, an oil fire, a forest fire, all-fucking-consuming.

Claire shifts, and he feels her shudder; her hips roll down against his thigh.

“ _Claire_ ,” he moans, hips rolling into her hand as she pulls up again; thumb circling the head of his cock. Her hips roll at a steady, fast tempo. “Are you?”

She drops her free hand against his chest. “Are you?” she breathes back and twists her wrist, changing the angle.

Matt groans, hips bucking _up_ , a perfect friction. He reaches out, finding her hip with one hand, feels the sway of her under his palm as she grinds against his thigh, jerking him off while she does. Matt drags his fingers against her skin and finds her clit with the pads of two fingers, just as she gives his cock a sharp tug.

They come together; crying out each other’s names. Claire sinks down, collapsing onto his chest. Matt’s arms are around her in an instant, one hand sliding through her tousled hair that fans over him, tickling his skin. Their chests heave together, spent.

“Mmh,” Claire murmurs, nosing at the line of Matt’s collarbone. Her mouth presses into the bone.

“Good?” he asks, thin.

She hums, smiling against his skin, pressing her chin into his breastbone. “For the first time,” she says, after a beat.

Matt laughs, curling his fingers tighter in her hair. He pulls his free hand around her waist and they roll over again; the sound of their laughter bright, clear, despite its breathlessness. He drags his mouth down her chest, her stomach, her startled laughter punctuating each kiss.

 

* * *

 

It’s Monday when he sees her again, walking home from work after parting ways with Foggy at 10th street. He makes the rest of his walk to his building by himself, late summer air shifting into autumn. There’s a breeze, coming off the river. It’s nice. Matt can smell the falafel place down the block; hear his neighbors’ kids enjoying the last days of summer. 

He freezes when the wind kicks the scent of patchouli and orchids his direction.

His cane’s just hit the edge of his front steps. He breathes in carefully, shallow, through his mouth. But he can still hear her breathing. He can’t feel his hands.

“What are you still doing here Elektra?” Her name claws its way out of his throat like a body from a grave.

“You can’t just decide who resides in a city of eight million people, Matthew,” she replies, cool as stillwater. Her voice comes from below him. She must be sitting on his steps. “I’ve had business in the city to attend to.”

Matt snorts. “That business includes sitting on my stoop, Elektra?”

“Well,” she starts, as if stating the obvious, “I would have just let myself in but I _know_ your particular feelings on the matter –”

“Jesus _Christ_ , Elektra!” Matt hisses. He groans, feeling hot, horrible anger reaching up inside him, twisting, a red devil around his spine. “Because it’s illegal. Because breaking into people’s homes is _wrong_. It’s –”

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time. If I recall, it was quite fun.”

His heart pounds. Matt laughs, cold. “Oh, you and I have _very_ different ideas of fun,” he growls. The anger in his chest is a tempest.

He forces himself to draw in a breath, the air hissing as he does. The pathetic attempt to reign in his temper fails. “I got _arrested_ because of you, I –”

“The charges were dropped,” she interrupts, untroubled.

Matt inhales, hard, and wraps both hands around his cane, so tight that they shake with the force. “I could have lost my scholarship, my chance at law school –”

“ – Which you _clearly_ have plans to pursue –”

“Elektra! You can’t just… show up here,” he spits. “It’s been five goddamn years and _you_ left _me_.” He’s trembling. The feeling of being split between third and fourth rib has returned and Matt has to clench his fists around his cane to keep from touching the spot.

“Alexandra is dead, Matthew,” Elektra says, after a beat, completely flat. Defeated.

For a brief moment, Matt feels the world sway.

Elektra’s adoptive mother – stern in a way Matt only felt at the hands of an old blind man and competitive enough to force her adoptive daughter to practice the violin until her fingers bled – is dead.

It was Alexandra who brought them together, initially. Matt had been – _not_ snooping around the Juilliard campus, looking for her, when he’d heard their argument; familiar enough to make Matt feel utterly trapped in the hall outside the room they were in. The first person to exit had stomped past him, expensive shoes _click-click-clicking_ on the floor.

Then a shout and the shattering of glass, very, very close to Matt, ricocheting off the floor. A shard catching him on the cheek. The door swinging open. Elektra’s boots, crunching. Her (somehow incredibly warm) voice, saying, _do you want to get out of here?_

As they drove down the streets of New York City, he’d told her about Stick; unable to keep the story inside. Not when it sounded like someone could understand.

And now her mother – always _mother_ , never mom – is dead.

 _I'm all alone in the world, Matthew._ The quiet, fractured tone of her voice outside The Chaste. A hook wraps around his stomach and pulls, guilt bleeding everywhere. He's the only person who could possibly understand what it must feel like to be Elektra Natchios.

 “I -” his words die in his throat. “I'm so sorry Elektra.”

She sighs. There's the click of her heels - expensive - on the concrete as she pushes up off his front steps. “You know how she was,” Elektra says, cool and nonchalant.

“Still – ”

“The funeral is tomorrow,” she continues. Her bracelets ring together as she shifts, sharp and clear like bells. The sound is achingly familiar. “And then I will be out of your beloved city, Matthew.”

Something aches, deep beneath his sternum. A bone bruise.

“Elektra –”

Her heels are already snapping against the sidewalk as she walks away. Matt feels the rest of his words fall back down his throat and into the hole ripped through his middle

 

* * *

 

He takes the 1 all the way down to Lower Manhattan Tuesday morning. Matt turns off his phone when he knows Foggy will be getting into the office, wondering where he is. Foggy wouldn't understand why Matt is walking down Broadway and up familiar steps, into the old church. 

He slips into a pew far from the nave, folds his cane, and prays.

It's an impersonal service, though Matt thinks the many people folded into their respective pews don’t recognize that fact. Elektra – Alexandra’s only survivor – does not speak.

There is a family plot at Broadway and Wall, one that has been in the family since the church’s founding. Elektra had brought him here once before. She'd laughed, disgusted and sipping on a vintage Shiraz stolen from Alexandra’s personal stock. Laughed at the idea that her adoptive mother would have her buried away from the Natchioses.

He's turning to walk away with the rest of the crowd of strangers after the service when he hears his name, accented and familiar.

“Matthew,” Elektra repeats, close enough now to touch his elbow and make him still. “Thank you for coming,” she whispers and reaches her arms around him before he can stop her.

She's small, warm against him. Matt’s arms are around her instantly, Pavlovian response to the contact. He can feel her whole body move when she breathes in. He tucks his head against her hair, unable to resist the urge to breathe her in. Her perfume is gentle on his senses. He used to love the scent of her; hasn't been able to stand orchid season since she left.

“You okay?” he asks when she leans back, her arms still looped at the small of his back, instinctive. He pushes his free hand through her hair and tucks a lock behind her ear.

“Better now,” she murmurs. “All I wanted to see today was a familiar face.”

Matt frowns. “You don't know any of these people?” He remembers his dad’s funeral. Fogwell himself, his dad’s longshoremen’s union. There had been people, people who Matt had grown up around, to tell stories of his dad’s best fights or the stupid shit he’d try to pull over on the bosses. They hadn't known what to do with Matt’s grief, but their stories were like lifelines.

Elektra laughs, haughty. “All of Alexandra’s little minions? Christ, no.” He feels her shrug. “But you're here now.” She exhales. “Stay with me? I am sure the priest will like me better if I have you with me.”

Matt snorts. “You know I'm Catholic, right? This an Episcopalian church.”

She shrugs again. “The son of God’s the son of God.” Elektra slips her hands from his back and slides one hand into his. “Come,” she murmurs, tugging.

He’s powerless to stop her now.

Matt keeps his hands tightly wrapped around his cane while the priest oversees the burial. He focuses on prayer, on the forgiveness of God. It takes the brunt of his focus to do , to ignore the curl of anger inside him that hopes Alexandra pays for the sins she'd committed. The ferocity of the feeling makes Matt unsteady. That even now, he wants to shield her from Alexandra’s cruel machinations.

“Amen,” he whispers as the priest finishes, crossing himself.The priest leaves them with a final goodbye to Elektra, leaving only the sound of Wall Street between them. Matt should go, he knows. He should try to get back to work, should turn on his phone, should –

“Come with me, Matthew,” Elektra says, supplicating, “I… I don’t want to be alone.”

He’s walking to her town car with her before he even realizes he’s put his hand into hers.

 

* * *

 

In the five years since Matt’s been inside Elektra Natchios’ midtown penthouse, he’s surprised to find nothing has changed. The way all sound is magnified by high ceilings and truly impressive acoustics. The layout of the kitchen. The same glass table against one of the wide windows that look out over the city. 

Even the fact that she pours him a Macallan without prompting is the same. She doesn’t drink whiskey, but she still has his preferred malt.

He accepts it, sitting at her kitchen island, his fingers trailing over the glass and steel. It’s all the same. He takes a drink.

“Elektra –” Matt starts.

“She was sick,” Elektra says, pouring herself Mezcal. “That’s why I came back. A month, they said.” He can hear her take a drink, the heavy set of crystal on the glass countertop. “You were away.”

Matt’s mouth twitches. “You went looking for me?”

“Not intentionally,” she admits, her accent crisp, cool. “But… old habits die hard I suppose.” She takes another drink.

He lifts his own drink to his lips. It’s not even noon yet; his breakfast had been half a piece of toast, forced down. The whiskey settles in his middle, warmer than anything else he’s felt today.

Matt doesn’t mean to ask it.

“Where did you go, Elektra?” He inhales. The penthouse suddenly feels – cold, as a shiver works up his spine. “The last time we were together?”

Matt can hear her glass ring as she knocks it against her teeth in surprise. She exhales as she lowers it. The penthouse is silent – so quiet, Matt can just barely hear her swallow. “As far from you as I could.”

The ache in his chest is so strong, that Matt almost lifts his fingers to his skin, to seek out the bruise that should be there from the weight of her words, to find the tender spot and press.

(The sound of her voice, higher, more strangled than he’d ever heard it – _I thought you understood me_.)

He takes another drink to buy himself time, to let his heart rate slow again. The whiskey is starting to pull through his limbs like live current. Matt sighs, faint. “Did you find whatever you were looking for?”

“Mostly,” Elektra says, low and deliberate, “I found that I was alone.”

Matt thinks about this empty penthouse, with its high ceilings, its collection of _things_. He thinks about himself – his own empty loft. About how different it’s been, since the start of the summer. He thinks about how impossible it is to feel alone, when you’re shoved inside a van with three other people, no matter how much anyone claims to dislike the other.

And he feels –

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

Elektra’s sigh is louder, now. Somewhere between sad and fond. She reaches out, her fingers are smooth, perfectly soft, as they slide across his forehead, pushing his hair back. There’s no nicks, no patch of dryness (not like Claire’s, marked by ambulance work, endlessly washing her hands at The Chaste, tending the church garden).

“Because you deserve better,” she whispers in reply.

Matt feels his mouth twist. He tosses back the rest of his whiskey, the crystal sounding hollow when he sets it back down on the counter. He’s quiet for a heartbeat. Two. “Elektra–”

“Do you want another drink, Matthew?” she asks, abrupt, stepping down off her seat. “I would certainly like another drink.”

She pours him another regardless.

 

* * *

 

“It’s weird, right?” Danny asks. “It’s weird that Matt’s not here.” He’s pacing across Luke’s living room, bare feet scuffling over the carpet. Because – the energy? Is better? If he’s barefoot? Or something? 

Jessica doesn’t care, actually. What she _does_ care about is the fact that Matt is twenty-three minutes and forty-five seconds late to practice. She cares about the fact that he’s not answering his phone when she calls and from the way Danny’s pacing and Luke is staring at the door, he’s not answering _their_ calls either.

“Has anyone tried Foggy?” Luke asks, after a beat, pragmatic and practical. Which is better than Jessica’s planned spiel about how Matt’s being a fucking dick.

“Yeah,” Danny says, nodding aggressively. “And he said that Matt didn’t show up at work today.” 

 _What the fuck_.

“Jess?” Concern inches into Luke’s voice. His brow has a worried set to it. When his dark eyes – usually level, usually calm – meet hers, they match the anxious look she knows is in her own, whether she chooses to show it or not.

“He was gone when I left,” she says, shaking her head. She’d rolled awake at ten and Matt had seemed long gone.

Luke stands then, reaching for his phone in the pocket of his jeans. “I’m going to call Claire –”

There’s a knock on the door.

Danny, nearest to it, flies to open it. “Matt!” he says, a grin breaking across his features. “Hey.”

Murdock, meanwhile, looks like shit, if Jessica’s being honest. He’s wearing a suit – black slacks, black jacket, black skinny tie that’s barely knotted all with a white shirt that looks like it might’ve been pressed, once upon a time. He’s out of breath as he ducks into the apartment, brushing past Danny.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles as he sets his guitar down, folding his cane before beginning to remove it from its case. “I – my phone died, and I lost track of time…”

“You okay, man?” Luke asks. He shifts his weight. Jessica watches him tuck his hands into his hoodie, an old tell. Luke’s nervous.

“Uh, yeah,” Matt’s nodding aggressively, like he’s forcing himself to. “Just – busy. There was this thing with this case –”

Even Danny’s eyebrows crawl up at that particular lie. As he opens his mouth, Jessica catches his eye and shakes her head. _She’ll_ deal with this. Danny’s mouth clicks shut.

Luke catches her eye too. He raises one brow. _You or me?_

She gestures to Matt with her head and mouths _later_.

“It’s all good,” Luke says, almost too casual. “You’re here, you’re okay. Now we can work.”

Their practice is one of the shortest they’ve had since they started. Jessica doesn’t know if Matt knows how distracted he is – he plays fine, like it’s easier than breathing, but. Questions thrown towards him get missed; he lets Danny test out a _siren_ loop in the bridge of a new song.

He’s just – not himself.

“So,” Jessica says, forceful, when she closes the door to Luke’s building behind her. She stomps down the steps to join Matt on the sidewalk. Out of habit she nudges his elbow with her own and he reaches for her, letting her lead him down the sidewalk.

He smells like a goddamn whiskey barrel. An expensive one. And she’d know. “Jesus _Christ_ , Matt,” she says when they’re barely even a full ten steps from Luke’s. “Are you _drunk_?” (She’s aware, that she doesn’t _actually_ have a leg to stand on here, considering she’s got a stainless steel water bottle of Jim Bean in her bag, thank you very much. It’s just – this is _Matt_.)

“No!” he says instantly, shaking his head. “I was – a little, earlier, but I’m not, I wouldn’t –”

“Where the fuck were you today?” she interrupts. He gapes at her. “Danny called Foggy when your goddamn phone was off. He said you weren’t at work.”

“I –” the silence tells her everything she needs to know. She’s not an idiot. As Matt well knows, Jessica’s got her own kind of stupid.

“You were with her.”

He does that silly goddamn thing with his mouth – where he sucks his lips over his teeth and frowns, sighing a little as he does. He’s got his head turned down.

“God, Matt, does Claire know?”

“No, I – it’s not –”

She snorts. “Listen Murdock, I get being an idiot. I get that, trust me, that’s my goddamn specialty,” she says, worried and frustrated and hurt and it all comes out angry. “But going behind _Claire’s_ back? With –”

“Jessica!” he snaps, finally. “It wasn’t like that, _Jesus_ , we just… talked, okay?”

She grinds her teeth. She’s done that before; she’s been _that_ , before; she’s hidden behind those words before. She knows how little they seem, and how big they can be. She knows what _just talking_ can be if someone leaves you feeling gutted and hollow and separate from everyone else on the goddamn planet. 

But she also knows she can’t just – tell Matt not to be a fuckup. He’s going to be one anyway.

At least, that’s been her life motto for twenty-seven goddamn years.

“Just…” she sighs. “Fucking. Don’t fuck off like that. Danny thought you got hit by a bus or something.”

Matt’s face contorts again. _Good_ , Jessica thinks to herself. He should feel bad.

 

* * *

 

Thursday, when Matt is leaving work, he gets a call. He’s ducking out just before Foggy – who’s stuck on a call to city hall, trying to argue for a file to be released. He’ll wait for him outside, maybe grab them coffee from the cart across the street before he has to head to church. 

 _Elektra Natchios, Elektra Natchios_ his phone announces. He jumps at the call of her name, nearly pitches his phone out of his hands as he fumbles with it. He’d forgotten that he never deleted her number. Instead it’s transferred over from phone to phone with each upgrade of the last five years, like some untriggered landmine.

He answers, just to shut the disembodied voice up.

“Elektra – ”

“Matthew,” she purrs. “I’m sending a car to you.”

He frowns. “Elektra, _what_ , I can’t –”

“Yes you can,” she says simply. “I’ve figured out how to get everything out of my system. To put Alexandra to rest so that I never have to think of her again.”

Matt’s insides twist. He doesn’t think that’s how grieving works. For all that he’s tried. “Elektra,” he repeats.

“And I need your help,” she continues. He barks a laugh at that, incredulous. She pauses, clearly waiting for him to finish. “Please.” Her voice is small. “Matthew.”

He tugs at the knot of his tie. “Send the car around the block.”

She’s playing when he’s let into her apartment by the doorman. The straining of her guitar flls the entire space, lifted and amplified by the high ceilings. Matt’s careful to close the door as quietly as possible. It’s the first time he’s heard her play in five years and when she hits the B minor chord it’s artful and pained and it leaves him weak in the knees. 

He leans on his cane for a moment and remembers how to breathe.

Elektra’s playing stops. “Matthew?” she calls, her voice clear and stark after the fullness of her guitar. “Is that you?”

“Uh, yeah,” he calls back, stepping forward into the penthouse. He still remembers the way to the studio space. It’s why Alexandra had bought _this_ penthouse for her, because it had the correct space for her to practice, the perfect acoustics, exactly what she would _need_ for Juilliard.

“What are you doing, Elektra?” he asks when he reaches the doorway. He leans against it, tucking one hand into his pocket. “Why am I here?”

“Because I can’t do this without you,” she says, her nails drumming on something – the body of her guitar, maybe, judging by the sound.

“Do what, exactly?”

“Play _music_ , Matthew,” she sighs. He hears her set down the guitar. Stand up. The snap of her heels against the hardwood floor. She gets close enough for Matt to smell orchids.

“You were doing just fine when I came in.”

She scoffs, but her footsteps continue past him. Matt’s faced with the choice to ignore her or to follow.

He follows her into the kitchen, where she’s reaching into the liquor cabinet, the glass bottles clinking together as she opens the door. A bottle is set on the counter; then another. “Don’t deny what we have, Matthew,” she says. The cabinet snaps shut.

“Don’t do that, Elektra,” Matt whispers as she pours.

“Do what?” she asks. Her heels sound metallic as she walks back over. “Here,” she says. “On your left.” She presses a glass into his hand.

He lifts it and sniffs. Whiskey, again. Christ. “Don’t act like you can just call me and –”

“But I did,” she finishes for him. “I called and you came, Matthew. Because you miss it too.”

“I –” he opens and closes his mouth. “I have –”

“Yes, _The Defenders_ ,” she quips. He can hear her take a sip before she continues. “I’m not asking you to quit, don’t worry your pretty head. I just… I need to play this out, Matthew. If it were Stick…”

Matt breathes out through his nose. 

He’s thought a lot about what Stick dying would look like; what it would feel like. Even more in the last few days. He’d be… untethered. Lost. Because Stick is an asshole, but he’s the asshole that taught Matt everything. He bought him ice cream.

He sighs. “Okay.”

“Good,” she says happily. “Now finish that drink and let me show you what I was working on.”

 

* * *

 

It’s only when he’s leaving Elektra’s penthouse that he realizes, dread crashing over him like ice water, that it’s _Thursday_. 

It's Thursday and Matt just spent the entire afternoon playing music with Elektra. He feels nauseous. _Fuck._

He thumbs at his phone, which cheerfully informs him that he’s got three missed calls from Claire. Matt calls her back.

“Hey,” Claire breathes into the line after the first ring. “Matt, Jesus – are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies, swallowing the panicked feeling in his throat. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot I – _Jesus_ – I’m so…”

“Sorry?” Claire supplies.

“ _Yes_.” Matt’s fiddling with the handle of his cane, leaning against the railing of a subway station entrance. He rolls his neck. “Can I buy you a drink? Take you to dinner? Make up for it?” 

She hums. Matt doesn't think he breathes, waiting for her reply. He can feel his heart slamming somewhere in his throat. _Fuck._ How could he have been such a goddamn idiot?

“Make it you cooking me dinner at my place and I think we can work something out,” she replies, easy.

Matt sighs in relief. “I can do that,” he murmurs. A smile tugs, hopeful, at the furthest corners of his mouth. “You want anything special?”

Claire's apartment isn't far from his own, but it's a secretive place, one he's hardly been in. Her presence was too strong there, too much of her shone through every scent, every sound, on each surface. It had been too dangerous.

And now, the scent of her mint plant by the kitchen sink mingles with the lemongrass and bergamot growing in the window box in the living room; the chipped stoneware of her plates, the low fuzz of the music she's playing all pull over him like a security blanket.

This is good. _Claire_ is good. And he can fix this, he can make up for losing track of time with Elektra. He _is_ fixing it.

He’s making pesto while Claire plucks mint leaves from her plant and crushes them under her fingers. Matt tosses chopped basil into her food processor while she pours rum. This is familiar; this is good.

“So,” she says, setting his mojito down on the counter next to him. Her bare feet pad across the linoleum. Matt inclines his head to listen as a chair creaks, then the table. She's sitting on it, he thinks.

“You want to tell me what's really going on?” Claire asks, no-nonsense, as Matt drops pasta into the boiling water.

He blanches, barely manages to ask, “Timer?”

To which Claire replies, “Got it. Don't dodge the question, counselor.” There's a hint of humor there that Matt can't bear to sink into.

He sighs and turns, his arms brace the counter behind him. “I'm -” he doesn't know what words to use. How to say, _Elektra needs me_. He knows how that one sounds. “There's things in my life Claire, things I don't – I can't –”

“Matt,” she sighs. “How long have I known you?”

“It's not that simple, Claire.” God, he hates how he sounds right now. “It's –”

“Complicated,” she finishes, resigned. “Always is with you.”

Matt frowns, angry at himself, shifting and sliding his hands into his pockets. He takes a deep breath. “I'm –” he means to say _sorry,_ but Claire interrupts.

“This isn't you pushing me away because we –”

“No!” Matt shakes his head and pushes off the counter, walking towards the sound of her voice. He reaches out, fingers searching until they find her knee. (She is sitting on the table, one leg on the seat of a chair and the other tucked underneath her.) Matt’s thumb moves over a fine, barely there scar. He squeezes over her knee, his other hand sliding over her undercut - she’ll cut it soon, he thinks, judging by the length.

“ _No_ ,” he repeats, gentler. “I wouldn't, Claire,” Matt whispers, carding his fingers through her hair. “You are…” he searches for the right words.

“You are the best thing in my life,” he murmurs, ducking his head to press their foreheads together. Her breath is hot against his mouth. “And I… I want – I just want to associate you with good things.”

She laughs, soft against his skin, her arms come up and twine around the back of his neck. “You know that's not how life works, right?”

“I like denial,” he replies, unable to keep the relieved laugh from tumbling out of him when he can feel her cheeks lift in a smile. Matt leans in, tilting his head to kiss her. Once. Twice. Three times.

“You'll tell me when you're ready?” she asks against his mouth. “Promise me, Matt.”

“I promise,” he whispers back. As soon as he figures out how. For now, though, he can lean in and kiss her until their dinner’s ready, lick her mouth clean of the taste of rum, simple syrup, and mint.

 

* * *

 

They play The Safehouse on Saturday night. He’d told Elektra when he was with her on Friday night that they'd have to keep working on her music Sunday instead. She doesn't fight him on it and Matt leaves feeling oddly buoyant. 

Claire kisses his cheek before she’s beckoned away by none other than Karen Page after The Defenders’ set, who says with a breathless, high voice that Frank needs stitches.

“This shouldn't take long,” Claire assures him. She gives his hand a final squeeze. Matt tugs and presses his mouth to hers, brief, before she laughs and slips away. He can hear her over the noise of the venue, assuring Karen that she's done this plenty of times.

It's only a beat later that the spice of patchouli and the sweet scent of orchids slide into the empty space next to him.

“Bravo, Matthew,” Elektra croons. She gives a brief series of opera claps before continuing. “I must say, it's truly good to see you performing again.”

Matt snorts. He lifts his beer, still managing to find it in him to grin despite himself at the compliment.

“Your girlfriend is adorable, by the way,” she adds. Elektra drags her hand up her wrist, her bangles chiming together as she does.

“Don't start,” Matt says just as she presses in close to him. He nearly startles when her skin brushes against his.

“Do you have tequila in this…” Matt groans before she can get her insult out. “Place?”

“That we do,” the bartender says, gruff.

“Excellent. Best make it two, then.”

Matt laughs, shaking his head as he sets his beer down. “I'm not drinking that.”

“Come Matthew,” Elektra urges. There's the sound of two glasses being set on the bar in front of them. She pushes one to him. “Live a little. You played a good show. Now celebrate with a friend.”

“Are we friends, Elektra?”

“Of course we are.”

The reply is so instantaneous and she sounds _so_ sure that it's enough to have Matt reaching for the tequila out of confusion alone.

“Oh my god.” Claire says from behind him. Her voice is low, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “Of course.” His stomach drops out from underneath him.

“Claire?” Matt turns, setting down his glass. His heart follows his stomach, down under the floor.

It’s just as Elektra’s glass sets on the bar. “Ah.” Her voice is a cool, collected purr. “ _You’re_ the bartender! From the… what was it, The Chaste? Oh, Matthew…” her hand slides over his. He jerks away, sudden and sharp, an ugly feeling twisting up inside him. “You’ve done better.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Claire says, anger rising in her voice. She steps closer. “And I’m supposed to assume you’re…”

“Elektra Natchios.” Her bracelets slide together as she reaches for her glass again.

“So you’re ‘the better’ then?” her voice is white hot with anger. She scoffs. “Wow, Matt.” Claire sighs. “Nice. I'm so fucking stupid.”

“Claire!” Matt calls, Elektra forgotten as he starts after the sound of Claire’s footfalls. They're quickly lost in the noise but Stick’s training is beaten into him: her scent is distinctive enough to follow her outside.

“Claire,” he repeats, out of breath, the hand that isn’t on his cane going to his hip.

He hears her footsteps stop on the sidewalk. Then two. Turning, he thinks, she’s turning. More as she gets closer. “What the fuck was that Matt?” anger flashes in her voice.

“ _Nothing_ , Claire,” he insists. Because it wasn’t – it wasn’t anything, it was – “A drink with a friend.”

“A friend?” Claire repeats. “Elektra Natchios is your friend? Matt are you fucking –” she sucks in a breath, angry. Matt’s heart pounds against his ribcage. “When I met you, she’d put you through a goddamn grinder, Matt.”

“It’s – different, now, Claire –”

“ _God_ ,” she sighs. “Do you even hear yourself right now? I –” she pauses. A sharp inhale. “Oh my god. Tuesday, when you disappeared. _Thursday_. I’m –”

Matt can’t breathe. Can’t move.

“Wow, Matt. I’m. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be mad at you or mad at myself.” She makes an angry, disgusted noise. “Jesus. I can’t – I can’t believe you. You blew off your friends, you blew off your band. You blew off  _church_. For her. _Me_ , you blew off me.”

“Claire –” he tries, his voice breaking as his throat closes.

“You selfish _asshole_ , Matt Murdock. I can’t even fucking…” she takes another breath. Matt feels his whole chest crack open. “She _cheated_ on you. How goddamn obtuse and fucking hypocritical can you be, Matt? Use your fucking head. Be a goddamn human being.”

“I –” he tries, wrecked. “I. Cla –”

“Don’t, Matt.” She brings her hands together, loud. “I’m done. I can’t do this.”

“No,” he whispers, “please don’t –”

“Too bad,” she snaps. “I can’t…” she sighs, the sound is wet, broken, and when she finishes, her voice is barely above a whisper. “I can’t fall in love with someone who’s so close to becoming something he hates.”

Her footfalls are heavy, fast when she walks away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matt, you're a fucking idiot. i love you. but you're an idiot. 
> 
> i am so sorry this chapter took a full week to come. i've been pretty busy with school and the accidental acquisition of a new kitten (appropriately named elektra meowchios) and this chapter was… arduous to write. i'm just as upset as y'all, trust me. but i genuinely believe that sometimes, for things to get better, they have to get worse. that's where matt is at right now.
> 
> we're getting close to the end here, y'all. i'd like to say i'll be finished by the end of next week, but i had originally planned on having chapter _nine_ up today. so let's agree that if i haven't posted nine a week from today, you're all allowed to yell at me. 
> 
> speaking of yelling… thanks from the bottom of my tiny gay heart to my betas [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com) and [sam](http://archiveofourown.com/users/moonheist). sadie, thank you for language fixin' and for pushing me to pull scenes together cohesively. sam, thank you for not murdering me while i stay up all night working on this and for helping me keep everyone in character. thank you both for dealing with my near daily I CAN'T WRITE messages. this chapter was a marathon, not a sprint, and y'all have been excellent.
> 
> and thanks to YOU guys who have been super patient, have said the kindest goddamn things, left kudos, and read this lil story. i hope, that despite the bleak state of things for the verse right now, you've enjoyed at least part of this update. for your trouble: here's [a series of mixes](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/post/165310493960/mic-verse-musical-influences-of-the-defenders) exploring the musical style of each member of the defenders.


	9. lift your voice and scrape your knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI Y'ALL! so this chapter is coming @ you a little late and for that i apologize but hopefully it's length and all the things inside will make up for it? the betas are getting a shoutout here at the top because both [sadie](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/) and [sam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonheist) are freakin' saints for dealing with how much crap i wrote and re-wrote this past week – anyway, on with the rest!
> 
> in which: shit continues to hit the fan, frank castle is the last sane man in new york, jessica jones makes me sad, the entire mic verse team admits defeat and starts to mourn the fact that show!danny is the worst, and claire temple still deserves better 
> 
> content warnings: ableism, abusive relationships, child abuse, alcoholism (this chapter is the darkest timeline, i'm sorry my dudes)

Matt’s hands ache. He can feel where the wrap is wearing thin, on the second knuckle of his left hand. He ignores it. Hits the bag again.  

He doesn’t hear the swing of the bag, the shift of leather under his fist. All he hears is Claire’s voice, shattered and small, _I can’t fall in love with someone who’s so close to becoming something he hates_.

It’s a repeating track, cycling through his mind, timed in cruel synchronicity with his punches. The tape on his hands is starting to itch.

 _Work through it, Matty,_ he hears Stick’s urging, voice rough as stone. Stick, who left him because he wasn’t good enough. Matt grits his teeth.

He yells when he punches the bag again. The _FUCK_ ricochets off the walls, off the ring two yards away, off the metal of the bell. It’s so inadequate, comes nowhere near encapsulating the intense, highly pressurized anger sitting in his chest.

“Wow,” Foggy says from behind him.

Matt’s head snaps up in surprise. He’d been so distracted he hadn’t heard the door.  “Foggy –” he starts.

“I was at the bar,” he says. Matt doesn’t miss the wince in his words. “Micro and I heard most of it.”

Matt exhales in defeat, in shame, in bone-deep exhaustion. He catches the bag in one hand and presses his forehead against it. It smells like decades of stale sweat. A little bit of blood. “I –”

“I figured you’d be here,” Foggy continues. Matt can hear the metal scrape of a chair as it’s dragged across the floor. “You really should lock the door when you come in, though. There are murderers. Crazy people.”

Even after the night he’s had, Matt chuckles at Foggy’s gentle tease. It’s familiar, more comforting than Matt thinks Foggy realizes. “Yeah, the first place a crazy murderer would scope out would be a forty year old boxing gym at midnight on a Saturday night.”

“It’s three, actually,” Foggy corrects. “And I won’t have you questioning the motives of my future clients like that,” Foggy says, easy, as Matt pulls himself away from the punching bag. He tugs at the wrap on his left hand, hissing in pain when it peels away. He thinks he might’ve popped something. Or cut himself.

“You’re not going to represent murderers,” he replies, ripping away the wrapping on his other hand. “At least. Not any without justifiable cause.”

That’s the thing about Foggy: he’s _good_. He believes in goodness. It’s why Matt loves him. It’s why they were going to go into law together – before they changed. Before _Matt_ changed.

But now he’s not so sure it was a change for the better. Fuck, he’s been so stupid.

Foggy sighs. “ _Ehh_ , you’re probably right,” he admits.

Matt exhales, touching his fingers to the ache in his hand. Not a cut, definitely swollen. He tries to bend it. It goes, but it pops when it does. Shit.

“You about done beating yourself up here?” Foggy says, a little quieter now.

“No,” Matt grumbles. He tries to rub out the pain in his knuckle. He _wants_ someone to fight him. There’s a part of him, even ten years later, that wants to go crawling to Stick and spar with him. At least then, his fuck-ups have instant, painful accountability. And the only one who gets hurt when he loses a fight is himself.

“Not that I’m saying you don’t deserve a good punch right now – because, _wow_ , Matt – but…” Foggy exhales. Matt’s sure he shrugs. “I think the best course of action is pie.”

Matt scoffs. “Pie?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, nodding. “I’m gonna feed you ‘til you tell me what the hell’s been going on with you. You’ve been ignoring me for a week and then _Elektra_ is at _The Safehouse_? C’mon, Matt. I’m not an idiot.”

Matt sighs. He mumbles a Hail Mary and picks up his cane from where it’s leaning against the wall.

 

* * *

 

 “Alright,” Foggy says, setting a plate down in front of Matt. They’re sitting at his kitchen table as his roommate, Kirsten, leaves for work. It’s almost four A.M. and Matt hasn’t slept. He thinks if he tried to… well. It probably wouldn’t work anyway.

“Talk,” Foggy orders once the door’s closed behind her.

Matt’s fingers curl around the fork on the plate. The metal is cool against his hand. He doesn’t know where to start. Foggy knows more than most, but. There’s things Matt hasn’t told him; hasn’t told anyone. And those memories block his airways, making it impossible to speak.

He forces himself to eat a bite of pie. It’s good pie – flaky, tart cherries. And yet, Matt has to force himself to swallow it down.

“Matt,” Foggy urges.

There’s another beat, when Matt sighs. He feels defeated. Crushed by his own – shit.

“Elektra’s mother died,” he says, finally. The force it takes to say it out loud leaves Matt slumping forward, shoulders drooping. “That’s why she’s back.”

“Shit,” Foggy says, concern inching into his voice. “The scary one that always wore white?”

Matt nods. Foggy doesn’t need to know the story – doesn’t need to know about the other Natchioses in the Jewish cemetery in Queens. He’d only met Alexandra the once.

“Yeah.” Matt pushes on. He can feel all the words, each part of _how_ and _why_ like a knot in his throat, one he can’t quite pull free from his body. But he’s – trying. _Jesus_. He sighs and pulls a hand down his face. “I went to the funeral on Tuesday,” he admits, whispering.

“Matt,” Foggy groans. “You should have _told_ me –”

“And to her place.”

“ _Jesus_ , Matt,” Foggy replies. He can hear Foggy take a breath, slow. “No wonder Claire dumped your ass.”

His fingers twist in the hem of his t-shirt, hidden from Foggy’s view. He thinks about Claire, teasing him in his bedroom while they undressed. Her fingers tracing the lines of his stomach. _You_. Her laughter. Matt feels. Absent.

Matt doesn’t even know how to tell Foggy the rest. Can’t.

“I – “ Matt swallows, trying to find words, find something, _anything_ to make this make sense. “I made a mistake, Foggy.”

“Misspelling _Hanukkah_ is a mistake, Matt,” Foggy replies, frustrated. “Going behind your friends’ backs – your _girlfriend’s_ back – to see your _abusive_ ex? That’s a little something else.”

And that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Matt’s fingers twist in the cotton of his shirt, rubbing the fabric between forefingers and thumb until the pads of his fingers feel numb. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. _Fuck_.

“You look like hell, by the way,” Foggy adds.There’s the sound of a plate being pulled across the table. Foggy pulling the pie back to him. “You don’t deserve my pie. But you can sleep on the couch.”

Matt feels something crack, just below the hollow of his throat. “Fog –”

“Just get some sleep, Matt,” Foggy says around his bite.

 

* * *

  

Matt crawls back into the apartment well after noon the day after the show. Jessica’s sitting on her couch bed, laptop open and a bottle of whiskey nearly finished on the coffee table she’d dragged up from two blocks down on trash night a few weeks ago. (She’d gotten tired of accidentally kicking the lock on Matt’s trunk in her sleep. Now she walks into the edge of the table when she’s drunk. When she’d complained about it in front of Danny, he’d muttered some crap about the _karmic balance of the universe_. God, she hates him.)

She looks up from her casework when she hears the door close, the knock of Matt’s cane against wall.

He and Claire had disappeared not long after their set last night. Jessica’s hoping – for the sake of her friends, but also to spare herself from the honestly oppressive air of sexual tension that infuses everything around them – that Matt’s spent the night with her. Finally.

Except. He looks like goddamn _shit_ when he walks around the corner. His hair’s fucked, his clothes are rumpled, which is par for the course for a hookup but it’s his _face_ that tells Jessica everything. Matt looks – haggard. She reads it quickly. Mouth thin, like he’s trying not to cry. No glasses. Eyes puffy like he _was_ crying. Deep bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep. The way he’s walking – stiff, like he’s sore, like he hasn’t slept somewhere comfortable, the same stoop she’d started to see on tour when they slept in the van in Walmart parking lots. And the knuckles on his left hand are swollen.

What the fuck?

“Well you look like shit,” she says, gruff.

“Ha,” he replies, hollow. He walks straight into the kitchen and goes for the fridge, taking out a beer. Then the freezer. Matt pulls out a bag of frozen peas. “I feel even worse.”

He takes both to the counter. Lifts the bottle opener from its new home on top of the counter – easier to reach for frequent use – and opens his beer. When he’s finished with that, he drops the bag of peas on his left hand where it rests on the counter and grasps his drink with the right.  

Jessica raises an eyebrow. She hates this cryptic shit.

She waits a beat, for Matt to take another long pull from his beer, then: “Well I’m not a goddamn mind reader, Matt.” Jessica snaps her computer shut. The case of Cheating Husband #356 can wait. She picks up her bottle and walks over to the kitchen. “Spit it out, or I’ll punch it out of you so hard that you’ll see,” she says, climbing onto one of the stools at the counter.

He sighs, setting his bottle down to brace both hands against the counter. His eyes are bloodshot. The hazel in them looks wet. It makes the flecks of gold in them shimmer, and makes Matt look weary. “Claire and I broke up.”

“ _What_?” Jessica feels – dumbfounded.

“It was my fault,” he adds, low. Angry.

Oh, _fuck._ She knows, she knows already. This is the face she’s worn, before. This is the face of Cheating Husbands numbers #2, #28, #203 through #354. “No,” she says, surprised at how anguished her voice is. She’d hoped – she’d wanted – Matt to be _better_ than this. “ _Jesus_ , Matt. You didn’t, not with –”

He shakes his head, his mouth twisting down into an ugly, angry version of a frown. “I _didn’t_.” He swallows, the apple of his throat rolling. “I would never.” She watches his jaw tick. His fingers move on the counter, stroking against the grain of the wooden butcher’s block. “But – what I did was good enough.”

Jessica sighs. “She found out about Tuesday?”

Matt nods slowly. His expression is grim. “And Thursday. And Friday.” _Christ_. Jessica feels a harsh pang in her guts. “And Elektra showed up to the show last night.”

“Did you _invite_ her, Matt, what the f –”

“ _No_ ,” he says, vehement. “But I thought we were.” He takes a deep breath. She watches his fingers move against the countertop. The sound of his breathing is wet. Jessica doesn’t mention it. “I – Elektra and I are _friends_ , Jess.”

Oh, that’s a fucking lie. Jessica remembers how hard it had been to even drag her _name_ out of him, even after Matt had honest-to-God forcibly removed Kilgrave from their damn apartment.

She doesn’t call him on it. (Yet.)

“There are things about me – things I’ve done – that only she knows.” He swallows again, his breathing shallow. “I – I’d hope you understand that.”

Jessica frowns. It’s such a pointed thing to say. To her. She takes a deep swig of her whiskey. “Fuck you, Murdock,” she mutters.

His face falls even further. “I only meant –”

“I know what you goddamn meant,” she replies. He’s talking about her fucking family, she’s sure. No one talks about her fucking family. “Doesn’t mean it’s a nice goddamn thing to bring up.”

His cheeks puff out as he does that stupid fucking frown of his. She can see the thumb on his left hand, now, worrying the corner of the bag of peas. “I – fuck,” Matt sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve –”

“Whatever,” she snaps. “This is different than that anyway, Murdock.” She finishes her whiskey and slides off her stool. She can feel the current bottle she’s had in all of her limbs. She’s almost numb. The last vestiges of feeling ache in her chest. She needs them gone, too.

After surveying the last of their stock, she tugs down a bottle of dark rum, groaning at the whiskey depletion. It’ll have to do.

The bottle cracks as she twists off the top. The rum tastes like shit going down.

 

* * *

 

 She goes to band practice on Tuesday because _unlike_ Matt, Jessica Jones is a good goddamn friend. Or something.

Matt – who hasn’t spoken to Jessica since Sunday – doesn’t show.

Danny’s sitting at Matt’s usual spot, knee shaking so hard his whole body jumps in time. Luke’s leaning against a window sill, hands in his hoodie pockets. His expression is. Stormy. Jessica thinks he might know.

Luke and Claire go back, further than she and Luke do. They haven’t dated in over a decade and Jess has been with Luke for two years, but. He’s protective of her. It’s part of why Jessica feels so – _safe_ with Luke. He’s a good guy; loyal and kind and as constant as magnetic north.  

She waits until she’s certain that Matt’s not coming before she leans her elbows on her floor tom and says, “We need to talk about Matt.”

Danny’s neck must nearly snap, for how quickly he turns to her, a wild look of fear on his face. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s being an idiot,” she says, bending down and reaching for the cider she’s got tucked next to her kit. It’s September now and while she thinks pumpkin ale is a stupid invention, apple cider reminds her of being a kid.

Luke snorts. “Might be an understatement,” he says, pushing off the windowsill to tug up an overturned milkcrate to sit on. He looks at Danny. “Claire dumped him.”

“Why?” the kid asks, frowning.

“She didn’t say,” Luke huffs. He’s annoyed by that.

It makes something jerk in Jessica’s chest, though. That Claire’s still trying to protect Matt, despite his sheer fucking incompetence as a human being. She’s worked enough cases to know what that means.

She’s still in love with him.

“His ex,” Jessica finally says. She probably shouldn’t talk about this. She’d have killed Matt, if he brought up Kilgrave. But Jessica’s a big goddamn girl and Matt’s a stupid fucking guy. So he can deal. (And, she’s sure that Luke and Trish have had _their_ conversations behind Jessica’s back. So.)

“She’s been around.” Jessica looks at Danny, “You remember her from The Chaste.”

“But Matt was pissed at her,” he counters. He sounds confused, which Jessica would usually think hilarious, how fucking naive Danny can be. But not today.

She sighs instead and makes eye contact with Luke. The corner of her mouth quirks, nervous. “Sometimes… when your ex is shitty enough, even if you’re angry at them…” She forces herself to take a breath. Luke doesn’t look away from her. “It can be hard to say no to them.”

Danny blinks. “I –” he pauses. His eyes go wide. “ _Oh_. You mean Matt was a–”

“I don’t know,” she replies, fast, before Danny can get the word out. She can’t hear it. Doesn’t want to. “But he’s not thinking clearly.”

Luke nods slowly. She watches his shoulders slowly inch down as he exhales. He’s going to forgive Matt, Jessica thinks. After Matt puts in work. A lot of it.

“Well how do we help him?” Danny asks, after the silence stretches out.

Jessica sucks in a breath. He sounds so – determined. Annoyed that no one else has said anything.

“We _are_ going to help him, right?” Danny presses on. His eyes move from Jessica to Luke and back again.

“Listen, wonderboy,” Jessica says. “Sometimes people don’t want or can’t –”

Luke shakes his head. “We don’t do anything,” he says, sounding very, very sure. Steady and resolved. “We just have to keep being his friends. Remind him what people who care about him do. And when he _does_ want help –” at this, Luke meets Jessica’s gaze “– we’re here for him.”

 

* * *

 

Matt wakes up early. He goes to work. He stays late at work. He goes home. He ignores Jessica, if she’s home. Feeds Clint. Walks Clint. He goes to Fogwell’s until he thinks Jessica will be asleep. Hits the bag until the bruises on his hands are fresh. He goes home and tries to sleep.

No matter how busy he is or how much his hands hurt (typing at work, wrapping them before  a session at the gym), Matt can’t stop looping Saturday night in his mind.

 _You blew off your friends, you blew off your band._ Researching legal precedence for a medical malpractice suit. _You blew off church._ Scooping Clint’s kibble into his bowl. _For her._ Me _, you blew off me._ Hitting the punching bag at Fogwell’s again and again.

Claire’s voice, breaking over _me_ , while he showers, trying to scrub off the raw guilt that’s worked deep under his skin.

 _Be a goddamn human being_ while he ignores calls from Foggy, from Danny, from _Elektra_.

 _I’m done. I can’t do this_ , as he’s walking up towards St. George’s. _I can’t fall in love with someone who’s so close to becoming something he hates,_ as he pulls open the heavy church door.

It’s been over a week since he’s last set foot inside St. George’s.

Matt spends a long time just inside the doors, trying to steel himself before going farther. He almost wishes the holy water he touches his fingers to before making the sign of the cross burnt his skin.

He doesn’t allow himself to sit in the front of the church, when he finally drags himself inside. Instead, Matt folds himself into a pew towards the back. Crosses himself before sitting. Closes his eyes when his fingers wrap around the rosary in his pocket. He can feel the texture of the tarnish on the silver beads under his fingers. It only gets worse as he thumbs over the beads, nicking his thumb on the edge of the cross at the bottom of it.

(He knows he should polish the rosary, but. It was his grandmother’s, then his father’s. Now his. The greasy, slick feeling of the old silver under his thumb might be the only thing he has left of them, really.)

_Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee…_

Matt doesn’t know how long he prays; how many litanies he gives. There’s almost something holy about the ache he feels in his knees, the crick starting to form in his neck. The numbness where his wrist bones press against the back of the pew in front of him. This is repentance.

What pulls him out of it is the creak of the bench next to him as a heavy weight drops into the pew. Cigarettes. Oil. The spice of drugstore deodorant.

Matt inclines his head to the sound of Frank Castle’s wheezing inhale. He’s breathing hard. Matt knows the sound – not just from nights after a hard set, ones where Matt can hear the crunch of bone under knuckles. He’s heard it from his dad. In _that_ moment. The breaking point, in the ring. It’s measured. Mechanic. Rattles in Frank’s chest.

He’s close enough that Matt can smell the tobacco on his breath when he exhales.

“What the –” Matt’s hands jerk and he feels the press of Christ on the cross against his palm. He catches himself, before he curses. “What are you doing here, Frank?”

“We need to talk, Red,” Frank finally speaks, low. Harsh.

“Here?” Matt replies, reproachful. “I’m at church, Frank.”

“Shit, Red, I hadn’t noticed.” The bench creaks again. Frank shifting his weight.

“ _Frank_ ,” Matt repeats. He’s no saint and he should be in the confessional, the one where he knows Father Diego is, offering reconciliation. Where he should have gone the second he’d walked in.

“Altar boy,” Frank grumbles.

Matt scoffs. “Can’t you show some respect?”

“That’s cute,” Frank sneers, hoarse. “Comin’ from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matt’s frown deepens. His temper writhes under his skin, latching on to Frank’s grunting reply. To the way he’s seated next to Matt, just close enough that Matt can feel the heat from his body. The fine current of anger coming from him.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you, Red, huh?” he continues, kicking one foot out against the kneeler. It makes a hollow sound. “I’m disappointed.”

Matt opens his mouth to speak. “I –”

“Listen carefully, okay?” Frank’s tone is urgent, low. There’s another creak, another shift on the bench. Fabric rustling. Frank adjusting. “I might generally be considered out of my skull, Red,” Frank continues, “so this might not mean much. But I think I just heard the craziest most batshit thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Matt frowns in confusion, something unsettled in his stomach. “What, Frank?”

“You,” he whisper-barks. There’s a new, sharper edge to his typical rasp. One that makes Matt’s spine go ramrod straight, his hands curling over his knees. “You really might be a whole new level of crazy, runnin’ around on Claire.”

Matt’s stomach drops out. Every muscle in his body tenses.

“How ‘bout now, you listening?” Frank speaks in a whisper. But the anger is palpable – maybe, somehow, more than it is when he’s screaming _it’s hard to see blood on a black t-shirt._

“I’m listening,” Matt whispers back.

“You an’ Claire, shit.” Frank grunts. “I’d – I would chop my arm off right here, in this church, just to feel that one more time for my ol’ lady.”

Matt can’t breathe. _Frank’s old lady?_ It’s – too much. Too much to try to understand. He’s not even thinking about it when he asks, “Feel what, Frank?”

“Come on,” Frank presses. The disbelief is clear in his voice. Just as clear as his anger. “We’re at the bar and it’s all over your face. You can’t hide that.”

Something recoils in Matt’s stomach. _I can’t fall in love with someone who’s so close to becoming something he hates._

“She’s made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Matt says, shaking his head. The weight of it – Claire’s voice, snapping, _I’m done. I can’t do this_ , the voice in his head that shouts _your fault, your fault!_ –  crashes down over him, caving in his chest cavity.

And Frank just _laughs_ , grating, not joyous, not even an inch. It’s bitter as hell, a little cruel. Matt freezes at the sound of it. “You sit here and you’re all confused about this thing, but you have it.” He huffs, vehement, as he continues, “And you’d just. Throw that away, for what? A girl you played with five years ago? You have everything. So, hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go.”

It’s Matt’s turn to chuckle, all annoyance. “It’s not that simple, Frank,” he says, even as the pew groans and Frank stands. He shuffles out of it, into the aisle.

Matt can hear the rapping of his fingers against the wood at the end of the pew. _One-two. One-two_. “Yeah, Red,” he rasps. “It is.”

 

* * *

 

Jessica has had enough. It’s been over a week since Matt and Claire broke up; two since his ex had shown up at The Chaste. And while Luke’s _wait until Matt’s ready_ thing is nice and all – Luke doesn’t have to live with him.

Jessica does.

So when she comes home from serving some rich asshole for Hogarth and Matt’s _home_ , in the loft earlier than he has been in days – and not, as Jessica notes, wearing gym clothes like he has been when he’s tried to sneak back into the apartment well after midnight, leaving her to take care of Clint – she knows what she’s got to do.

He’s sitting at the counter, drinking her whiskey out of a mug. Their sink is full of dishes neither of them want to claim responsibility for. Jess has just been drinking from the bottle. The attempt at normalcy Matt’s trying for here with the mug is almost hilarious. She knows how much beer he’s been drinking the last few days.

She finishes saying hello to Clint – who has quickly become the _only_ one in this apartment who’s not an asshole – and strides over.

“Alright, enough,” she says, pulling the bottle off the counter, from where it sits next to his folded glasses.

“Jess –” Matt starts, his head tilting up towards her. His eyes look – puffy and tired. Jesus.

“I’m not done,” she snaps. “I’ve had _more_ than enough of your goddamn pity party Matt. You snuck around with your shitty ex girlfriend and you got caught. Boo _fucking_ hoo.”

Matt groans and pulls a hand over his face. He needs to shave. God, Jessica hates men sometimes. Men and their stupid depression beards. “Not today, Jess,” he mutters, dark. “I’ve already heard it from –”

“I don’t care,” she cuts him off. Her eyes land on the whiskey in her hand. Oh, what the hell, if she’s talking about this with Matt she deserves goddamn drink. Of her own whiskey. So she takes a healthy glug from the bottle. “You fucked up. And yeah, that sucks, but this goddamn pity party you’re throwing yourself isn’t _helping_.”

That draws something out of him. His shoulders tense under his long-ago ironed dress shirt. “What am I supposed to do, Jess?” he snaps. “Claire doesn’t want a goddamn thing to do with me – which, I don’t honestly blame her –”

“You have _friends_ , asshole,” she says, flicking his shoulder. “Friends who happen to give a damn about you, even when you’re being a selfish fucking _dick_.”

That shuts him up; leaves his mouth hanging.

“Hell, Danny thinks you hate him _for real_ now,” she continues. “He mopes around Luke’s apartment when we’re supposed to be _practicing_ but can’t because our asshole guitarist won’t show up because he’s too busy kicking himself for being an asshole instead of _doing_ anything about it.”

She takes a deep breath, and then a long pull of whiskey. Matt doesn’t say anything. He opens his mouth to speak and then clicks it shut, jaw working.

Another beat.

“What do you want me to do, Jess?” Matt whispers. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Come to practice,” Jessica says it before she can think better of it. She _misses_ it. Misses him and the way he makes whatever it is about their band _work_. The way it used to feel, playing at his back, even when Danny would climb all over her drum kit. Jessica takes another drink. She doesn’t need to feel fucking sentimental about _Danny Rand._ “Remember how to be a goddamn human being.”

Matt laughs. It’s dark and cruel and she can see the way it hurts in the lines around his unfocused eyes. “You’re the second person to tell me that.”

Jessica snorts. “Well, yeah, it’s not a hard thing to do.”

Matt takes a drink from his mug and exhales when he sets it down. His shoulders shake when he does and his breathing is – wrecked. His fingers tap over the knuckles of his left hand. She can see a series of bruises on his skin that she wants to ask about, but doesn’t know how.

“I really fucked up, Jess,” he whispers, quieter than she’s ever heard him speak. “I’m such a – _Jesus_ – I’m a mess.”

She remembers this part, too. That pain. “Right now? Yeah,” she says, offhand and easy. “I’m not gonna lie to you about that.” Jessica shrugs. “But a few weeks ago, you weren’t. So – whatever, I’m not a fucking self-help book. Come to practice, Matt.”

He sighs. Jessica pours more whiskey into his mug.

 

* * *

 

Danny Rand’s arms are thrown around Matt as soon as he’s through Luke’s front door. His hug is _tight_ and emanates the wet-earth scent of weed, mixed with something acidic, fermented. It does little to ease the anxiety that is eating away the lining of his stomach.

“ _Matt_ ,” Danny breathes into his shoulder. He’s crushing Matt’s cane to his chest, trapping Matt’s arms between their bodies.

“Holy shit, Danny, you’re acting like he died,” Jessica says. “Let him go so I can get in.”

Danny releases him, mumbling, “Sorry.”

Matt ducks his head and steps inside the apartment. “Uh,” he mutters, “me too.” It doesn’t feel like enough or the right thing to say.

“C’mon, bromance of the century,” Jessica says, touching Matt’s shoulder. He follows her into the living room, where Matt can hear Luke moving around, tuning his bass. “I come with gifts,” Jessica announces as they walk into the room.

Luke stops playing. Matt’s throat tightens. (Luke and Claire dated, Luke and Claire dated, Luke and Claire dated – he probably hates Matt, this was a mistake, God, this was a mistake.)

“Matt,” Luke says. Matt opens his mouth to speak, to say _I’ll just – I can go –_ but Luke continues. “It’s good to see you.”

He has to force himself to swallow. _What?_

Jessica steps on his foot.

“Uh – yeah,” he manages. His fingers twist around the handle of his cane. “It’s – good to see you too.” _God,_ he hates that phrase.

“Great,” Jessica says, forcefully bright. “Now that we’ve all had a great time saying hi to each other, we’ve got a lot of shit to catch up on, right?”

“That we do,” Luke says, easy and nonplussed.

“Uh, yeah,” Matt echoes, forcing himself to nod. (He can do this, he has to do this.) He taps out with his cane until he finds an upturned milk crate to sit on and pulls his guitar case off his back. His hands only shake a little as he tucks his folded cane into the front pocket of the case.

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Danny whoops. Matt hears him flicking switches on his synth. “I had some ideas last week for an outro to _Lit Me Up_ that I wanted to run by you, Matt, and –”

Matt swallows the nervousness in his throat. It tastes like bile. His fingers twitch over the pick-ups of his guitar before he reaches for the auxiliary cord Luke offers him. It’s a familiar, practiced motion and one that makes something in Matt’s chest settle back into place as he plugs his guitar into an amp. It hums to life, drowning out, for just a moment, the sound of Danny’s voice.

He thumbs over the frets on his guitar as Jessica groans. “Danny,” she snaps. “Shut up and start playing.”

Jessica counts them in and muscle memory takes over. She gives them an extra roll of the drums, gives Matt the chance to catch up. He finds he doesn’t even need it.

It’s – _good_ to play again, with Danny’s voice dragging behind his when he slips into the chorus of _Mene_. Good to feel the weight of his own guitar and not one of Elektra’s, expensive mahogany body under his hands. The old maple of his Strat is warm against the palm he has curved around the neck.

And if it stings a little when he sings, “ _This is my own fault_ ,” Matt thinks he deserves it.

Practice ends when Luke has to leave for work and Danny claps his arms around Matt again before he leaves, knocking the wind out of him as he does.

“Jesus, kid,” Jessica mutters. Her hands are deft, pushing at Danny’s shoulder, untangling him from Matt – who laughs, discomfort tightening his throat. _Danny thinks you hate him_. He’s just a kid.

Before Matt can follow that thought, Jessica presses her elbow into his side. “You ready?”

“Uh – yeah,” Matt says, nodding. He takes Jessica’s offered arm, even if they’re just walking to the elevator. It’s that she offers her arm to him at all. “Let’s go.”

She’s waiting for him when Matt and Jessica walk up to their building. The scent of orchids hits him before Jessica sees her, carried by the wind off the river. His spine stiffens. _No_. Not now. Not today. It’s –

“Oh, _fuck_ , no,” Jessica mutters just as she comes to a stop. Matt thinks they must be a couple yards away from their building. He can smell Mrs. Garcia’s fruit stand. She’s got papayas.

“I didn’t ask her to come,” Matt says, immediately. He’s whispering, quieter than he needs to be. But he can’t stop the racing of his heart. It makes him breathless. “I didn’t do this, Jess.”

She makes a noise in her throat. “How did you –”

“Orchids,” Matt says, thick. His throat constricts. He tries to swallow, to clear it. But – there’s a knot, right in the middle. “I can smell them.”

(Stick would be furious, the way he’s letting his chest tighten, at the mere goddamn _smell_ of her.

Though, Stick would be furious about Clare, too. Stick’s desperate belief in never letting another person close had nothing to do with Elektra. She came after. One of Matt’s failed attempts to prove that loving people isn’t a mistake. To prove Stick wrong.)

“God, you’re weird.” Jessica scoffs. He feels her weight shift, his hand still wrapped around her bicep. “So. How do you wanna do this?” Her shoulders roll as she shrugs. “I still owe you one.”

Matt inhales, sharp, painful. Jessica’s words burrow under his skin. He doesn’t deserve that kind of kindness. Not from her.

“I –” he forces himself to swallow. To speak clearly. “I got this, Jess.”

She snorts, scoffing again. “You know I don’t believe you, right?”

Matt sighs. “Please,” he urges. He’s not going to be able to stomach it, if Elektra’s able to sink her teeth into Jessica. She’s strong, but – Elektra knows which buttons to push, which memories to trigger like it’s some kind of supernatural gift.

And this is Matt’s problem.

She’s Matt’s problem.

Jessica shrugs again and slips from his grasp. “Whatever,” she says. Her boots thud down the sidewalk, away from Matt and away from their apartment.

Matt takes a breath and walks forward. The smell of papaya gets fainter as he walks closer. The orchids grow stronger. His stomach twists, anxiously recoiling at the scent.

“Elektra,” he says when he knows he’s close enough. He’s surprised at the clarity in her name. The edge to it, too.

Her heels click on the pavement. “Matthew,” she breathes, fabric shifting as she stands. “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

It’s so – forward and abrupt and Matt can’t stomach it. The fact that she’s just so ready to tell him he’s the bad guy, here, for ignoring her calls. For not wanting anything to do with her. After everything that’s happened. After the way she’d spoken to _Claire_ –

“Yeah, no shit,” Matt replies. Anger, somehow both familiar and strange, reaches up from his middle. “What do you want, Elektra?”

“That’s no way to speak to a friend, Matthew,” Elektra says, soft – _gentle_. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.” She reaches out. Her fingertips press into his wrist, warm, light.

Matt laughs in disbelief. “Really?”

“Of course.” Her reply is immediate, so sure it makes something wrench in Matt’s chest. Her fingers trail up his arm. “It’s not like you, to shut me out.”

“No, that’d be you, wouldn’t it?” Matt asks, before he can think better of it. “Elektra –”

“I’m trying, Matthew,” Elektra says, cutting him off. Her voice holds the same desperate sincerity that he’d heard two weeks ago. It makes him ache, still.

He sighs and feels – _tired_. Bone tired. Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. Christ. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to _do_ here. Because, fuck – he feels his anger, feels it like a knife against his skin, but.

She’d asked him for help.

“Please,” she murmurs, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking. (Which – maybe she does. She’s the only person who knows him. Knows _all_ of him. And that’s why it matters, showing up for her.) “Let’s have a drink.”

Matt sighs. “Fine – I. Fine.”

“Good,” Elektra says, brighter. There’s a pause before she adds, “You’re not going to invite me up?”

“No, Elektra, _Jesus_ ,” he sighs, angry. He’s not going to invite her up. _Christ._  No – he might be agreeing to this, agreeing to _her_ but. No. She’s not going there, not into his apartment. She can’t have that.

“Fine,” Elektra replies, aloof. “I’ll call a car.” He can hear the click of her clutch as she reaches for her phone and he groans. “What?” she replies, droll.

“I’m not going out with you, Elektra,” Matt says, exhaling.

“And yet you agreed to a drink with me.”

 _Fuck_. He should have just – let Jessica deal with this. Just walked away. He should have said no, told her to fuck off. But. He’s here. _Fuck_.

Elektra scoffs. “I’m not drinking anywhere _here_.” Her distaste for his neighborhood is an old gripe, one that rakes against Matt’s already frayed nerves.

He sighs in defeat. “Fine,” he repeats. “Fine.”

The restaurant where she takes him is expensive, fancy enough that Matt can hear the clink of silverware against china and can’t smell or hear the kitchen. All he can smell is fresh linen.

Elektra is perfectly charming as the waitress seats them. She orders their drinks (Mezcal for her, Macallan for him, before he can even get a word in edgewise) and food, all without even bothering to look at the menu, because that’s who she is. Once, Matt thought it was wonderful.

“Okay,” he says as he hears the waitress walk away. He rolls his cane under his fingers, folded up, on the tabletop. The table linens are thick, fine. Matt gestures with his free hand as he says, “Talk.”

“I don’t know why you’re upset, Matthew,” Elektra replies in the same genteel, flummoxed tone she’d had in front of his apartment building. “ _You’re_ the one who was ignoring my calls.”

“Because you _insulted_ my –” His throat closes.

She’s not his girlfriend anymore.

“Yes?” she says, expectant.

“Claire and I broke up,” he says instead, flat. It’s the second time he’s said it out loud. It hurts just as much now, even a little over a week later.

“Oh, Matthew,” she breathes. Her hand touches the back of his, stilling the fidgeting of his fingers against the cane.

He tugs his hand out of her grasp. “Don’t,” he hisses, indignant. Matt’s lip curls. “Don’t do that. Not now. Don’t act like you –”

Their waitress returns and Matt snaps his mouth shut as she slides Elektra’s plate in front of her. Matt catches the scent of figs, fennel, and sumac –  an overpriced, lavish smelling dish. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to eat, sir?” she asks, turning her attention to Matt.

He shakes his head, forces up a polite smile. “No. Thank you.”

“You were saying?” Elektra asks, expectant, between bites of her food after the waitress walks away.

Matt sighs and drops his hand from the table. He presses his fingers against his hip instead. He breathes in through his nose, trying to center himself, to pull back all of the horrible, undone feelings that roam through him, now that their cage in the center of his chest has been destroyed.

“Why am I here, Elektra?” he demands. “What do you _want_?”

“Matthew,” she says, a modicum of softness in her voice. “I told you. I need you.”

Matt sighs. His chest aches and he’s _tired_ , tired of feeling like this – of knowing she’s the only person in the world who has ever known about what he’s done, what he had to do, as a kid, to survive, to _learn_ how to survive. But –

“ _Claire, Claire, Claire_ ,” Matt’s phone chimes into the lull of the conversation. Her name, even in the disembodied, mechanic voice of his caller I.D. system, is a powerful, heavy fist to his solar plexus. He can’t breathe. “ _Claire, Claire, Claire_.”

He’s answering before he even thinks about it.

“Claire?” he breathes, scant.

“Listen, I wouldn’t call you, but – Luke’s at work and Trish isn’t answering her damn phone,” Claire says, fast, angry. No, not quite angry – _worried_. Her voice is rushed, edge flashing, but Matt knows her, knows her voice. “It’s Jess.”

Something bottoms out of Matt’s stomach. _Jess_.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, immediate, heart slamming against his ribs.

“She’s –” Claire sighs, the sound of it heavy, cracking through the phone. “Someone needs to come get her. And like I said, I wouldn’t call, but. It’s either you or the cops, so.”

 _Christ_. Matt’s already trying to figure out the subway route to The Chaste. He knows he’s in Columbus Circle, from the restaurant name. It’s been a long time since he’s had to navigate on the fly like this – he should probably just call a cab, but the adrenaline that rushes into his system doesn’t allow for logical thought, just _go_.

“I’m on my way,” he says, immediate. “Give me fifteen minutes.” It’s the C, he thinks. He hopes it’s still running every 10 minutes, like it was when he was a kid.

His phone beeps, once. Twice. “Claire?” Matt calls. But she’s already gone.

He shoves his phone into his pocket and starts to pull his jacket on.

“Are you leaving?” Elektra asks, supercilious. Her silverware makes a soft sound as she sets her fork and knife on her plate. An edge sneaks into her tone when she continues, “We’re in the middle of dinner, Matthew.”

He’d told Frank that it wasn’t simple – choosing what he wanted. But. He’d made his choice the moment he answered his phone. The moment he’d heard Claire’s voice.

“No,” Matt says, unfolding his cane. “You’re having dinner.” _He_ is going home because Jess needs him. Because Claire asked him. Because – “You were gone for five years. I moved on, Elektra,” he says, standing. “And if you haven’t…” Matt sighs. “That’s not actually my fault.”

It’s that simple. Matt walks out and gets on the subway. He deletes Elektra’s number from his phone on the ride into the Kitchen, for want of something to do with his hands.

The Chaste is slow, even for a Tuesday night. There’s little chatter when Matt pushes open the door. And that feels – _wrong_. Because it should be louder. There should be the sound of Jessica, snickering while Danny says something like _I’m processing my own buffalo ghee, it’s good for your chakras_ ; or Trish on her soapbox about a girl being tried for murdering her mother’s abusive husband; or Foggy laughing at his own story from their college days.

They should all be here, after practice. With Claire taking her breaks at their table, her ankle hooked around Matt’s.

That’s gone, though. Because of Matt.

“Alright, Jess,” Claire says. She sounds – tired. Matt feels a sharp pang in his chest. It’s Tuesday. Claire worked all night last night and then some this morning. Her schedule – the same for the last three years – is hardwired into his brain.

Annoyance starts to leach into her words as she continues, “Your ride’s here. It’s time to go.”

And then, as Matt is following the sound of her voice, there’s a shuffling sound, the knocking of legs against a barstool. “M’ _fine_ , Claire, _Jesus_ ,” Jessica says, voice low and slurred. “I’m. _Good_.”

Claire snorts. “Yeah, you said that a bottle and a half ago. It’s time for Matt to take you home.”

The sound of Claire’s voice – short, nettled – on his name feels like a punch to the throat. It shouldn’t hurt more than her voice, broken, saying _don’t, Matt_. But it does. It hurts so much more.

“ _Matt_?” Jessica says, incredulous, just as he reaches the bar. She’s perched at her usual corner, the furthest one, back to the stage. He can smell the whiskey on her, overwhelming. Jesus.

“Hey, Jess,” he says, careful.

Jessica scoffs. “M’not going anywhere wi’ Matt,” she says to Claire. He hears her chair creak as she turns to him; her elbow knocks into his side. He reaches out, wraps his hand around her arm.

“Let’s just go home, Jess,” Matt says. Under the whiskey, he can smell Claire – his senses zero in on her like a beacon: lemongrass, mint, antibacterial soap. The first time he’s been near her in weeks. It makes him feel like his chest is being cracked open.

She jerks her arm away from him. “You’re a goddamn piece of shit, you know that, righ’?” She scoffs once more. “M’not going _anywhere_ with you.”

Claire sighs. “Go home, Jess. Sleep this off.”

Jessica snorts. “She won’t serve me my goddamn whiskey,” she says, apparently forgetting her ire with Matt and turning it toward Claire. “Can you fucking – _believe_ that? M’not even that drunk. Fuck.” She kicks the bar. Her boot makes a heavy _thunk_ when it connects with it.

 _Christ_. Matt doesn’t know how this happened. He’s seen her drunk. (Most days, he realizes. Most days he’s seen her drunk.) This is – more than that. He’s seen her coming down from this kind of drunk, cursing at police officers, calling him when she doesn’t know where she is.

He has to get her home.

“Jess,” he says, gentle. Matt settles his hand on her shoulder. “C’mon.”

She stiffens under him as he presses his thumb over the curve of her shoulder. He should have seen it coming, should have known but –

It happens fast.

Jessica swings around and Matt hears the bone in his nose crunch before he feels it. It’s a sharp, forceful shot of pain. He can feel the warm slick of blood, as it rushes down his face. The metallic, copper taste when it drips down over his lips.

“Hey! No way –” Claire shouts, but Matt doesn’t hear the rest.

His brain turns off. It’s been years, almost a decade since Stick threw him out. But the body remembers.

Matt doesn’t let go of her. Instead, he drops his cane.

He wraps his free hand around her wrist and pins her arm back, stepping forward to keep her between the bar and his frame, until she stops writhing against him, until –

Jessica uses her other arm to swing her bottle back against his head.

It instantly shatters against the side of Matt’s head. The tinkling of glass shards hitting the floor is the first thing Matt registers. Jessica uses the momentum of her swing, throwing her weight back against Matt. He stumbles backward in surprise. His feet catch over his cane, discarded on the floor and he stumbles, letting go of Jess.

“ _Jesus_ , Matt –” Claire’s hand wraps around his forearm, steadying him. “ _Jessica –_ ”

“Oh,” Jessica breathes, ragged. “Fuck. Shit. I – fuck. I’m –” Her breathing is coming in desperate gasps. “Shit, shit, shit, shit. _Fuck_.”

“Hey, Jess –” Matt tries to reach out for her, but her boots crunch against shattered glass and she’s gone, the bell on the bar’s door ringing as she leaves.

“ _Shit_ ,” Matt hisses and tries to pull himself from Claire’s grasp. “I have to – I have to go –”

Claire almost laughs. It’s a hysterical sound, desperate and Matt hates it, hates the sound of it. The way fear edges into it. “No,” she says, keeping her hand around his wrist. “No way. You need to go to a hospital. You could have a concussion, Matt. There’s _glass_ in your scalp. Jesus.”

“ _No_ ,” Matt insists, shaking his head. Panic, wholly unrelated to _everything_ that’s just happened, rises up from his belly, making his blood freeze over. “No hospitals.”

He hasn’t been inside a hospital since he was blinded. They’re loud, so fucking loud, and the scent of antiseptic is so strong it burns, _burns_ the inside of his nose, his throat, his tongue. No. Not a hospital.

“Matt –” Claire says, an octave lower, concern bleeding into every letter of his name.

“No,” he whispers. He can feel himself starting to shake. “Please. Claire.” Saying her name hurts more than his head, more than his nose. In fact, he barely feels that physical pain at all.

She sighs.

The argument is actually old – he _has_ fallen, once, in the five years that he’s known her. Going down the stairs into the church basement. She knows how he feels about hospitals.

“Fine,” Claire admits, defeated. “But I’m cleaning you up. Now.”

“But, Jess –”

“Is a grown up,” Claire says, firm. “And broke a _bottle_ over your head, Matt,” she adds, distressed. “Jesus. I –” He hears her take a long, deep breath. “C’mon, let’s get you in the back. I’m going to close up.”

She leads him around the bar, walking them slowly and carefully around the carnage of Jessica’s whiskey bottle. Matt can hear the scrape of a chair being dragged against the floor when she gets them into the back room. It’s metallic, loud and grating on his hearing.

Claire sets her hands on his shoulders. “Sit,” she orders. “Don’t move. And don’t fall asleep. I have to lock up and get my bag.”

Matt does as she asks. He doesn’t think he’s concussed. He doesn’t feel dizzy or nauseous like he has when he’s had concussions before. (Stick, twice, and then the incident at church, though he’d been very careful to mitigate his symptoms around Claire.) He does, however, carefully take his glasses off, hissing when he realizes there’s glass resting on the arms. It scrapes against his skin when he pulls them off.

He runs his fingers over them. There’s a bend, in the bridge. Shit. He’ll have to get new ones.

When she returns, she unfolds a chair and sets it next to him. He hears the heavy thud of her work bag when she sets it on the floor beside her. “Let me see your hand,” she says, quiet and careful.

Matt obliges, though confused. “My hands are fine, Claire – why do you –”

“Ice,” she says, pressing a cloth that’s cold against his palm, ice crackling as it moves. “For your nose.”

He blinks and then feels sheepish, a bit of heat curling up the back of his neck. “Thank you, Claire,” he murmurs before pressing the makeshift icepack to his nose.

She doesn’t acknowledge his thanks. “I’ll clean up the cut on your nose when the swelling’s down.” He hears her rummaging through her bag. The snap of gloves as she pulls them on.

Her hands come up, then, feather light as she cards her fingers through his hair, searching out glass and broken skin. He startles, just for a fraction of a second. Even with the gloves. She’s touching him. It’s easy for him to ease into it.

“Jesus,” she mutters, her fingers pick out a large sliver of glass from behind his ear. “Here I was hoping my day would get worse.” She sounds. Exhausted. Weary.

“Claire –” Matt starts, his insides twisting.

“You in the mood for a haircut?” she asks instead. One hand drops from his head and he can hear her reaching into her bag. “Because you’re getting one.”

He shrugs out of reflex. “Not like I can see it anyway,” Matt mumbles in reply.

She sighs, then. “Suppose you’re right,” she whispers. Matt listens to her shift in her seat. She tilts his head. “Here we go.”

Claire doesn’t cut away much hair, mostly around his ear, a little more above it, some at the cowlick at the crown of his head. Her scissors are small, though, and pull a little when she snips at his hair. “Sorry,” she murmurs, barely audible.

The apology, whispered like a secret, reaches between Matt’s ribs and curls around his vital organs. He exhales, closing his eyes.

Matt opens his eyes again at the sound of glass hitting glass. “What –”

“I’m putting the shards in a cup,” she says softly; her voice is level. It doesn’t waver. She’s a good EMT, Matt realizes. Her voice is as steady as her hands as she carefully pulls the larger shards from his hair.

He swallows, unable to keep from thinking about the feeling of her hands in his hair, the quiet, focused sound of her breath. The way it brushes against his ear, his neck. He can feel blood drying on his skin, tacky. Can still smell it and taste it everywhere. He tries to focus on _Claire,_ the bright scent of the mint on her breath.

“Jesus, Matt,” Claire sighs, dropping a fourth piece of glass into the cup. “You’re pretty good at taking a beating,” she says, exasperated as she unzips something in her bag.

He chuckles, soft and low. “I got that from my dad,” he whispers, unable to fight the onslaught of memories. The sound of gloves on his dad’s skin. His first taste of Scotch, before stitching a cut above his dad’s eye. He can remember the cut – the sight of the blood, the color it was when it dried. But he can’t remember the rest of his dad’s face that night.

“He was a boxer, right?” Claire asks, quiet. Matt can hear the faint, wet sound of her whetting her lips. He swallows.

“Yeah,” he breathes, shifting the ice on his nose so that the cloth isn’t in his mouth. “Not a good one, but…”

“He was your dad,” Claire finishes, gentle.

Matt shifts in the chair, his weight dropping. It’s –

People don’t get that. If he talks about his dad. Foggy had shaken his head, mentioned the fight with Creel, how _good_ his dad was to knockout someone five years his junior. Elektra had asked if he’d died in the ring. Hell, even his priest had asked that.

But Claire. Claire didn’t ask about boxing. _He was your dad_.

“Okay,” Claire says, her deep breath stopping Matt’s thoughts in their tracks. “Tweezer time.” She clicks them, once, the sound small – but Matt hears the metal touch. “This isn’t gonna be fun. You ready?”

Matt nods and wraps his free hand around the edge of his chair. “Ready.”

Claire takes another breath. Her hand reaches up to cup his face, under his chin, her thumb pressing into the corner of his jaw. Despite the gloves, he can feel how warm her hands are.

And then she sets to work. It’s not pleasant – not in the least. But Matt is good. He knows how to do this, how to keep still and how to let someone tend to his wounds. And Claire is – better than Stick ever was. Matt’s sure part of that’s the sight, but –

Part of it is her. The steady sound of her breathing. The mint on her breath. The earthy, citrus note of lemongrass on her skin. The way her thumb moves up and down, featherlight, over the corner of his jaw when she bends down to drop a piece of glass into the cup.

He doesn’t know how long she works before she sighs, stopping. He hears her set her hands down on her thighs, the way she rubs her palms against her legs. “How are you so calm right now?” she asks, the confusion in her voice making her speak louder now. “Matt…” she pauses, taking another breath and Matt doesn’t dare breathe until he’s sure she’s finished. “You can say all you want about your dad showing you how to take a beating but… when Jessica hit you… you didn’t even _flinch_.”

Matt closes his eyes and sighs.

He wants to tell her. The words come, blooming inside of him. He doesn’t –

Matt doesn’t want Elektra to be the only one who knows. He doesn’t want her to have that power over him anymore. He wants –

He wants Claire to know. Wants Claire to see him.

There’s no hesitation, when he says, careful, “That… was Stick.”

“Stick,” Claire echoes. She’s dubious.

Matt swallows and nods. He pulls the ice from his face. If the swelling hasn’t gone down by now, it’s not going down. “My foster dad,” he offers. It’s – strange. To call him that. He was never. _Dad_. Just Stick. “He was –” Matt swallows. “He wanted me to be able to fend for myself.”

“So he taught you how to take a _bottle to the head_?” Claire asks. She’s stunned. A bit unhappy.

His fingers worry the soaking cloth, ice mostly melted. “Something like that,” he confirms, quiet.

She doesn’t say anything. Matt can barely hear her breathe. His heart feels out of place, beating too fast in the middle of his throat.

Then he hears the snap and crinkle of gloves. Claire’s jaw clicking, as she pulls one glove off with her teeth. There’s the rustle of plastic – she’s thrown the bloodied gloves away.

Her hand comes up to cup his face, fingertips rest on the side of his head that’s free of glass. He can’t move; can’t breathe for a fraction of second until Matt registers that Claire is _touching_ him. Pulling his head towards her. Touching him.

Matt’s muscles relax and he leans into the touch. He breathes in deep through his nose, pressed against her wrist. _Claire_. He feels – full up with warmth. Like tangible light’s filling every hollow space inside him, gently pushing aside non-essential things like bones, muscles, organs, all to make room for the feeling of her fingers pressing into his hairline, the feeling of her palm against his stubble.

The relief that washes over him is so strong, he’s left breathless.

“Thank you, Claire,” he whispers, mouth tucked against her wrist. He can feel her pulse skipping where his face touches her wrist. Her heart is racing.

Her hand shifts against him, thumb pulling over his ear, delicate. “Matt,” she sighs. “I didn’t –”

Matt shakes his head. “You listened.” He doesn’t hesitate.

The knot that lives in the deep, secret middle of Matt’s chest loosens. The trapped memories, the feelings he shouldn’t have, they all reach out from that place, untangling themselves from each other and Matt can feel his lungs expand, breathing in without tethers for the first time.

And he breathes in Claire – lemongrass, mint, and antibacterial soap – and he feels it.

 _You have it_. Matt didn’t understand, when Frank had growled at him in the church. _We’re at the bar and it’s all over your face_.

It’s Claire. He has Claire.

Claire, who is sighing and tilting his head while the entire axis of Matt’s world shifts, pinpointing itself on Claire, on the feeling of her skin against his.

“I’m gonna have to stitch one of the cuts on your head,” she says, finally, quieter than before.

She drops her hand from his face then and Matt has to fight the urge to say _it doesn’t matter, touch me again, please, I’ve missed you_ . Because she doesn’t deserve that. She’s helping him because she’s _Claire_ and that’s who she is. It has nothing to do with the feeling she draws out of him, the way he feels light, warm things between his ribs, the latticework of veins and arteries that run from his head to his heart when she touches him.

He’s in love with her and _this_ – Claire stitching him up – has nothing to do with that. Because she doesn’t feel the same way about him.

There’s another rustle of fabric, then a plastic, rattling sound. A soft _pop_. Pills, Matt realizes, as there’s another rattle.

“Here,” Claire says, reaching for Matt’s hand. She presses two pills into his palm. “Take these.”

“What is it?” he asks. He doesn’t like pills, especially painkillers. They remind him of the sleeping pills they’d put him on as a kid, when he’d have nightmares and wake up forgetting he was blind. ( _To keep you from hurting yourself, Matthew_ , they’d said.)

“Two ibuprofen,” Claire says. “Catholic morphine.” Heat flares in Matt’s chest at the easy way she teases him. It’s familiar – more comforting than Matt could have ever anticipated. “Take it,” she urges when he stalls, too consumed by the sound of her voice.

He doesn’t want this moment to end. This perfect, crystalline moment where it feels like the last three weeks haven’t happened. “I don’t know,” Matt mumbles back, the corners of his mouth turning up in to smirk.

Claire laughs, dulcet and soft, in reply. Matt’s laughing too before he can even register it happening. Her foot nudges his. “C’mon tough guy,” Claire teases. “I know you’re… trained to handle whatever the hell life throws at you, but I don’t want to just start sticking needles in your skin without something to take the edge off.”

He obliges her and swallows the two pills. Matt tongues the roof of his mouth after, tasting the coating.

“Thank you,” Claire breathes. Matt can hear the snap of another pair of gloves being pulled on. “I’m going to have to clean the wound,” she says, slipping back into her calm, steady EMT voice. He can hear the swish of rubbing alcohol in a bottle. “And I’d like to clean up the others, too. So, hold your breath or whatever.”

Matt gives her a nod, and when she starts to unscrew the cap, he focuses as much as he can on breathing through his mouth. He can still smell it – chemical, too harsh, acidic – but he doesn’t say a word, only wincing slightly when she gets into the large cut at the crown of his head.

“We can use water to clean up your face, then iodine, okay?” she says when she’s tossing gauze into the trash. “Fair?”

He nods again. “Fair.” He can still smell the gauze and alcohol.

“You okay?” she asks as she starts to pull things from her bag. Matt can hear the gentle knocking of metal tools.

“M’good,” he assures her. It’s not a lie – the smell is unpleasant, but, when Claire shifts again he can smell lemongrass and he hones in on it; on her.

“Alright,” Claire says. She doesn’t believe him, he can tell that much from her tone. She takes a deep breath. “Here we go.”

Matt bites down hard on his tongue with the first pull of the needle. It takes a few stitches to adjust, but by the second suture it’s not as bad as it could be, really. He focuses on his breathing. On the sound of Claire’s breathing.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” Claire says, setting up another suture. “I have to give most people the whole _you’re okay, it’s okay_ speech.”

Matt chuckles. “I used to stitch my dad up,” he offers. He can’t quite wrap his head around how easy the memories come to him, how they reach up out of him before he even knows he’s speaking.

“Before your accident?” Claire asks. “I’m starting again,” she adds, before leaning in once more. Her chest presses against Matt’s shoulder and she’s so _warm_ it takes more of Matt’s self control to keep from sinking into her body than it does to keep from crying out when the needle pierces his skin.

“Yeah,” Matt replies, after the initial pull of the needle. “He used to give me a shot of scotch to keep my hands from shaking.”

Claire is quiet, for a beat. Her hands still. Matt hears her whet her lips. It’s just a second before she continues her stitch. “That’s a lot of responsibility for a kid,” she says, finally, hushed.

He’s not sure how to reply to that. Foggy’s heard this story because he asked him how old he was when he had his first drink (seven). Foggy had laughed at the story, good natured and drunk himself. Stick had told him that he’d better figure out how to stitch someone up without a crutch.

But Claire doesn’t do either of those things.

She finishes the suture. “Okay,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Alcohol’s coming back out.” He ducks his head while she cleans her forceps, tries to breathe through his mouth, shallow. It’s over quickly, but Matt’s still trying to lick his mouth clean of the arid taste.

Claire doesn’t speak as she works. But her foot’s still pressed against his. Matt’s heart pounds while he listens to the tacky sound of her gloves being pulled off and another pair coming on.

“Turn your head towards me,” Claire murmurs. Her voice is back to being hushed, halcyon. Matt’s breath is blown away. Oh, oh – he loves her. He loves her so much it hurts. “I want to check your nose.”

He obliges her and her hand comes back up to cup his face again. The latex of her glove is tacky against his skin, the texture on her fingertips pressing into the hollow under his ear. And yet – under the powdery smell of gloves is _Claire_ and he drinks that in, greedy.

“Good,” Claire breathes. Her breath is hot against Matt’s face. “This might hurt,” she adds, before tentatively prodding at the injury. He sucks in a breath at the tenderness.

“Well, the swelling’s going down,” she says, matter-of-fact. Her fingers track over his nose, as careful as possible. “And it’s not crooked, so we don’t need to re-set it,” Claire continues, mostly to herself. “I want to clean up this cut, though.” She adds, louder, directed towards him, “You gonna stay here while I go get a rag?”

Matt nods, despite wanting to say _please don’t go_. It’s a foolish urge, one that surprises him with its strength. She’s going to come back, firstly. But more importantly, he probably shouldn’t let himself be so moved by her touch. She’s cleaning him up. Because that’s her job. She swore an oath.

“Okay,” Claire says, sliding her hand down his face slowly before she rises from her seat. Matt listens as she moves about the back room: the sound of her removing her gloves once more, the rush of water when she turns on the sink and waits for it to heat, the rustle of linen as she pulls out a fresh towel.

Her knee bumps against his when she sits back down. “Chin up for me?” she asks. When he does as he’s told, she curls her fingers around his chin, steadying his head.

He gasps when she dabs the cloth against his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, going still. Worry, in her voice.

Matt’s insides wrench. “Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I’m good.” He wraps his fingers around her elbow on impulse, to reassure her. She’s wearing short sleeves. Her skin is smooth under his touch. His fingers stroke the curve of her bone of their own accord.

She doesn’t move away. Claire begins to press the cloth to his face again, gingerly wiping the blood from his mouth, above his lip, and around his nose. Matt’s fingers tease over her skin.

Claire’s quiet while she works, her fingers moving deftly over his face. He doesn’t want her to stop. (He should want her to stop.) When she does, she leans back, inhaling deeply as she says, “Alright.” Her hands fall from his face and Matt drops his hand from her elbow. He can hear the push of Claire’s palm on denim as she rubs her thighs. His own fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, full of nervous energy. “You doing okay?”

 _I’m in love with you_.

“Yeah,” Matt says, nodding the affirmative.

“Good,” Claire replies. There’s a beat. Matt feels anxiety like a balloon in his chest, expanding.

“C’mon.” Matt hears Claire zip her bag up, the soft _thud_ as she drops the towels she’d used on his wounds into the trash. “Let me walk you home.”

Matt arches his eyebrows in surprise, a breathless chuckle bursts from his middle. “Are you worried about me?”

He can hear her get up, her footsteps as she walks across the room. Fabric rubbing against fabric – she’s pulling on her coat. “What if I were?” she asks – barely audible, but. Warm.

The anxiety under Matt’s ribs shatters like a spiderweb crack. He can’t breathe properly. He laughs again, trying to catch his breath, to pull air back into his lungs. “Then I’d tell you I was a big boy,” he says, his mouth tilting up into a smile all on its own, “and not to be.”

Matt can’t quite understand how he’s able to tease her. Like this is normal. Like the last _three months_ haven’t happened. He feels – hope. It’s only a shadow, but it’s there.

Maybe.

A beat of silence. The swing of her bag as she pulls it over her shoulder. Then: “Right,” Claire murmurs, full of familiar and fond exasperation. “As if I’m supposed to believe that.” Matt’s fingers twitch. He thinks she’s smiling. He wants to know, though, for sure. “Time to go.”

She lets him wrap his hand around her wrist when he stands, to lead him back into the bar. Matt’s fingertips curl under the sleeve of her jacket and press along her pulsepoint. Her skin jumps at the touch. He can feel the pace of her heart quicken and he can’t breathe.

When she slips from his grasp to grab his cane from the floor before sweeping up the remaining shards of glass, Matt’s thankful for the moment to try to pull himself together. It’s the first time he’s so much as been in the same _room_ as Claire since she told him she was done with him.

And he’s in love with her. And she just spent over an hour picking glass from his hair. Because Jessica bottled him.

 _Fuck_. He can’t fight the wide gulf of guilt that spreads through his middle when he thinks about Jessica. He feels – responsible.

“Hey,” Claire says, pulling him from his thoughts. “You ready?”

Matt nods, trying to push away the tightness creeping into his chest at the thought of Jess. “Yeah,” he says, fingers fiddling with the loop on the end of his cane.

The Chaste isn’t actually far from his apartment, a few blocks uptown and then a few more towards the river. Claire lets him wrap his hand around her forearm anyway. Even through her jacket, Matt can feel the heat coming off her body.

(The knowledge that if he hadn’t been so fucking foolish, so fucking naive, that he could have kissed her by now, pressed her body between the stone of a building and his own frame and placed his mouth over hers is. Crushing.)

Claire doesn’t talk. Neither does Matt. The city makes enough noise for them: the rapping of Matt’s cane against the pavement; the sound of a taxi rolling to a stop, picking up a girl and her friends on the corner, the heavy _thud_ of the door as it closes; muffled music from the apartments above them; the hum of electricity (lights, air conditioners still running to fight the dregs of summer heat); someone on the opposite corner asking for a dollar.

Matt wishes, desperately, though, that he knew what to say. How to tell her that he’d made a mistake. _Many_. Because he’s in love with her – because it’s always been her.

Claire slows them to a stop outside his building. Matt can’t believe that five hours ago Elektra was sitting on his steps. It feels like another lifetime. It makes him feel. Worn.

Claire sighs, then, shifting her weight. “Matt –” she starts, worry folded into her voice, “listen…” She inhales, deep. “Maybe you shouldn’t go up. Come back home with me.”

Matt can’t breathe. He doesn’t even think his heart is beating. _Home. With me._

“If Jess is up there I can’t –”

He laughs, an inch of hysteria leaking into the sound. Oh, Christ, he’s an idiot. Of course that’s what she meant. “She won’t be,” he says, confident even in his despair. “That’s not Jessica’s thing. She’s –” Matt sighs, then. He knows Jessica’s hiding out somewhere. Because that’s how she’d moved in with him – hiding. “You know Jess.”

Claire hums sadly. “Yeah,” she says,  resigned, “I guess we do.”

They continue up, Matt dropping his hand from Claire’s arm to climb the stairs and let them into the loft. “Sorry about the mess,” he mumbles as he pushes open the door.

Clint races up to them immediately, butting his head against Matt’s calves as he rests his cane to the side and shrugs out of his jacket. His tail thumps against the wall, a steady rhythm that draws a laugh out of Claire. It’s a bright, easy sound that Matt wishes he could trap inside him, to keep.

“Hey there, Clint,” Claire says, full of affection that makes a warm creature curl up around the base of Matt’s spine as he slips behind Claire and the dog to close the door. He can hear the damp sound of Clint panting, Claire’s hands moving over his fur. The shake of his collar as he tilts his head for better scratches. The wet sound of Clint licking Claire. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

Matt forces himself to slip further into the loft, fingers tracing the wall as he walks out of the entryway. He heads for the kitchen and pulls down a glass for water.

Claire and Clint follow, the sound of Claire’s footfalls and Clint’s nails audible when he turns off the tap.

“How’s your head?” she asks, voice closer now. He can hear her shifting, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her tone is low, concerned when she adds, “No dizziness? No nausea?”

Matt shakes his head, finishing his water. “Nothing,” he assures her. He tries to map out where she is, pinpointing her scent. He taps out his fingers across the counter, searching for a minute until his hand slides over hers. She’s braced against the kitchen counter, facing him.

He means to say _I’m fine. Stop worrying_. What he says instead is, “Thank you, Claire.” His voice is a hairsbreadth from breaking. His index and middle finger stroke over her knuckles.

Matt can feel the bones in her hand shift under his touch. Can hear her breathe in, pull her lip over her teeth. She’s quiet for a beat. Two. Three.

“You’re probably going to want to take the day off work tomorrow,” she says, finally, sighing. She shifts and her hand slips out from underneath his as she pushes off the counter, stepping in front of him.

Matt’s not expecting it when her hand comes up, pushing his hair back from his temple on the uncut side of his head. He exhales, tension eking out from his shoulders, his neck. Matt closes his eyes, swaying into the touch. “You look like hell,” she says, quiet, with what barely constitutes as a laugh punctuating her words. “You’ll look worse in the morning.”

Matt exhales, grins back at her because she’s touching him again, tender and easy. “Gee, thanks,” he murmurs.

“You’ll live,” she teases back, sliding her hands through his hair down, down to the base of his skull. Her thumb swipes over the back of his neck. “I’m telling Foggy what happened, so if you try to show up at the office tomorrow he’ll take you back home. You do need the rest, Matt. I’m serious.”

Matt sighs. He doesn’t want that – doesn’t want this to be a _thing_. He leans in, ducking his head against Claire’s hand in defeat.

“Don’t fight me, St. Matthew,” she cautions, warm. “Collen’s been teaching me self-defense. I can take you.”

It draws a laugh out of him, despite the weariness in his chest about the way things are going to be different now, not just between him and Claire. He opens his eyes again. “I just – I don’t want Foggy and everyone else angry with Jess,” he admits after a pause. “It’s.” He sighs again. “Not her fault. She wasn’t in control.”

Claire takes a deep breath, her hand coming back up to smooth over his hair again. He tries his best to keep from stretching into the touch like a cat. “I’ll explain everything, I promise.”

She’s quiet again, for just a moment, her fingers carding through his hair again and again. “You know,” Claire whispers, ardent, “Matt Murdock, you may be a lot of bad things. But a bad friend isn’t one of them.”

Matt…doesn’t deserve the compliment. It feels like she’s reached inside his chest and pulled out something essential. He doesn’t know if he minds.

“I –” Matt’s throat feels tight. “Thank you, Claire,” he whispers again.

It happens so fast Matt misses the shift of the floorboards under her weight. She stretches up on her toes and presses her mouth to his hairline. Her lips are forgiving against his skin.

She’s gone in an exhale, her hand sliding out of his hair as she settles back down. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she murmurs. Her footsteps are light as she turns, walking away from him. She says goodbye to Clint, his collar jingling as she scratches his ears.

Matt should say something, anything. He knows he should. But for the first time since he left Elektra in Columbus Circle, he can’t. His throat is tight.

Claire’s knuckles knock against the wall. Her footsteps slow. “I’ll check out your stitches when I see you Thursday.”

Hope takes root in his chest, weaving through and over his ribs; twists around the curve of his lungs; burrows deep, deep in his ventricles. _Thursday_. He can’t breathe, the hope in his chest is too powerful, too strong. More than a shadow.

“Claire –” he starts, just as the door closes behind her with a _click._

 

* * *

 

 Matt doesn’t turn his alarm on. He feels like maybe he should want to go to work – because Claire had been so sure he’d want to. But when he crawls into bed after she’s gone, he doesn’t.

He allows himself to feel the full ache of his head; the tenderness in his nose. It’s still with him when he wakes up in the morning, woken from drifting in and out of sleep by a heavy thud and Jessica Jones’s voice, low: “Shit, shit, shit, _shit_.”

Matt pulls himself out of bed, tucking one hand into the pocket of his hoodie while he slides open the door. “Jess?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. He tucks his other hand into his pocket to keep from touching his nose – prodding it will only make it worse.

There’s a beat of silence.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Jessica breathes. Her voice is wan, shattered and raw. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know you were gonna be home. Shit. I can – I can come back, to pack up my shit. Jesus. Fuck.”

His brow pinches in confusion. “Pack up?” Matt echoes, trying to parse Jessica’s words.

“Yeah,” she says. Matt hears something heavy settle on the coffee table. A movement of fabric as she – shrugs? Maybe, from the way he can hear the metal on her leather jacket ring. “I’ll just. Crash at Trish’s while I find a new place.”

Jessica’s – _moving out?_ Matt frowns harder. “Why would you need to find a new place?”

She groans. “Fuck. Did I hit you that hard? Fuck, Matt – because I –” her words come out strangled. The anguish in them is palpable. “I beat the _shit_ out of you Matt, god. I – if you wanna press charges, like. I get it. Fuck.”

 _Oh_.

“Jess, no – Jesus,” Matt says, shaking his head. “You really don’t need to do that.”

“Are you on lithium?” Jessica replies, incredulous. “Fuck. Matt, you can’t see yourself but. I did a fucking number. Jesus. I can’t – I shouldn’t –”

Except Matt remembers his catechism; fourteen and sitting next to Foggy at St. Agnes’. School uniform itching the back of his neck, tugging down the sleeve of his sweater to keep a bruise hidden, Sister Maggie reading, _Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? As many as seven times?_

Matt’s fingers following along, faster than the Sister read, _Jesus said to him,_ _I do not say to you seven times, but seventy times seven._

“You were drunk, Jess,” Matt says, careful to keep his voice level. He thinks about Luke’s voice, on a late June afternoon after band practice. The world-weary breath he’d taken before admitting, _I'm worried about her, Matt._

And the fact that Matt promised to keep Jessica out of trouble. This isn’t that, but. Just like at the start of the summer, it’s all he can offer her. This space.

“I’m always drunk, asshole,” Jessica mutters in reply. She sucks in a breath, mutters, “ _Christ_ ,” under her breath. Jess groans. “Don’t do this, Murdock.”

Matt’s hands twist in sweatshirt, wringing the material while he asks, “Do what?”

“This pity shit,” Jess snaps back. “I don’t deserve it and I don’t _want_ it.”

He shrugs, reflexive. “I’m a Catholic,” he jokes, trying to shirk off the horrible feeling in his chest – that Jessica’s going to leave. That she’ll leave the apartment, leave the band. (What would that mean for them? For all of them, but mostly – Matt’s mind closes in again on Luke, the shuttered sound of his voice.) “I have a soft spot for hopeless causes.” He tries a smile. Anything, to pull this conversation back.

Jessica scoffs immediately. “That was bad, even for you.”

A hysterical laugh, both anxious and relieved, escapes his chest. “Sorry.”

She sighs again and Matt hears the rub of fabric on fabric, the soft creak of the couch as she sits. Matt steps forward as she whispers, emphatic, “ _Fuck_.”

His hand searches out the arm of the couch. When he’s made contact, he lowers himself down. Jess smells like cigarettes – whiskey still, but the scent is… lingering. Not on her breath. Which smells of smoke and Matt’s toothpaste.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” she says, small, hushed, when Matt sits down. “Please tell me you are. Because otherwise that definitely means you have head trauma.”

Matt shakes his head. “Not kidding and no head trauma,” he replies. He fists one hand into the fabric of his hoodie. A fissure of warmth spreads through his chest when he adds, soft, “Claire checked me out.” He pauses, before adding, “I’m good, Jess, really.”

He can hear her lean forward – the creak of leather, her gloves against denim – and Jessica sighs. “You know I’m a piece of shit, right? And shit stinks, Murdock.”

“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “I think I got the same speech from you a week ago.”

Jessica snorts. Shifts again. The cushions of the couch adjust as she leans back against it. She doesn’t say anything for a long while. Neither does Matt.

“We’re not hugging.”

He laughs.

 

* * *

  

Sunday afternoon, Claire walks Matt home from church. It’s late September and they talk about Thanksgiving, mostly, and what they’ll need to start working on in the food pantry, to prepare.

It feels – surreal. To be walking with Claire like nothing ever happened between them. Like Matt hadn’t kissed her in July, like Elektra never came back. Like Matt never fell so hard for her he’s subterranean.

But it’s all real. It all happened. Every last part of it. And every step they take, every inch of contact between them, is an acute reminder. He’s full of words he can’t say. Because she ended things. Because she deserves better.

And that’s something Matt is learning how to live with.

It’s just hard to figure out when she’s sitting him down in his loft, her work bag open on the counter, and she’s taking the stitches out of his head.

“Have you heard from Jess?” Claire asks, her gloves crinkling loudly as she pulls them on.

Matt frowns in confusion. “You haven’t seen her?”

“No,” Claire says, slow – confused. She stops moving. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Matt says immediately. “She’s – good. At Trish’s, I think. But. She’s been home, here. You haven’t seen her at The Chaste?”

“Nope,” Claire says, popping the ‘p’. She hums. Matt can’t hear her moving. “There’s no whiskey bottles,” she says suddenly, soft.

Matt blinks. “What do you mean?”

“In here,” she clarifies. “You keep liquor on the top shelf by the fridge, right?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Nothing there,” Claire says.

He doesn’t know how to reply to that but his chest warms in the silence. Claire doesn’t say anything either. Matt listens to the sound of her breathing and thinks about how much he’s missed that sound. The delicate way the air moves when she exhales.

“Your nose looks better,” Claire says after a beat, hushed. Her fingers brush the underside of Matt’s chin. He shivers at the touch. His muscles relax; he’s pliant under her hands, tilting his head for her. “Stitches too.”

Her thumb drags against his jaw. They’re sitting so close that her knees bump into his. Matt shifts, keeping the contact.

Claire’s tweezers and forceps clatter together as she pulls them from her bag. “Ready?”

Matt nods and sits up, his hands curling over his knees. He forces himself to focus on his breathing as Claire’s tweezers start to pull at the first stitch.

 

* * *

 

Claire asks them to play The Chaste in the first week of October. Matt doesn’t know how to feel about it. He’s relieved, that they’re inching back to the place where they can. Be friends. Be the kind of friends who can spend a whole night in the same space together while The Defenders play a show. And yet –

They’ve spent the last week holed up at Luke’s, working on new music. Lyrics and chords which Matt has felt twisted around his spine like spiderwebs. They itch – itch and itch until he’s playing. Until Jessica’s teasing out a drum beat behind him; until Luke’s next to him, laying out a path with his bass. Even Danny’s synth is a balm, shifting and changing around Matt’s words.

He’s nervous about the songs. Two are ready for trotting out at The Chaste, and it’s been a month since they’ve last played live.

It’s not just the songs, though. It’s not just Claire, laughing behind the bar as Colleen tells a joke at Danny’s expense. It’s everything: the crowd that he can hear slowly gathering; the sound of Foggy, chatting with Karen Page and Micro, the drummer from Leatherneck; the sound check.

Frank is gruff with him, maybe says three words to Matt, total. It’s all grunts and huffs when they check Matt’s monitors, his guitar, his mic. Jessica gets four words. Danny three. Luke, the most, gets five.

Matt tries to escape the growing sense of anxiety by slipping outside while one of the openers plays, taking his beer with him.

“Main street,” a voice whispers, low, near the curb. “Birch street.” It’s Jessica.

Matt follows the sound, tapping out with his cane. “Higgins Drive.” She’s sitting on the curb.

“Jess?” he asks, careful. She’s speaking so softly Matt thinks she might not realize she’s even speaking aloud.

She sucks in a breath, calling out in surprise, “Matt?”

“Are you alright?” he asks. His hands tighten on his cane. He leans his weight on it, just a little.

“Yeah,” she snaps back, immediately shuttered. He can hear her boots scrape against the pavement as she pushes up off the ground. She sniffles a little. “M’fine.”

Matt nods. “Mhm.” He doesn’t believe her, but doesn’t know how to call her out on it. There’s a pause, pregnant and awkward, before he says, sighing, “I’m really fucking nervous, Jess.”

It’s – surreal, to voice. He doesn’t like how raw the words make him feel.

Jessica snorts. “Yeah? Well, I’m stone cold sober, so.”

He breathes for a moment, the weight of Jessica’s words falling on his shoulders. He doesn’t tell her that he’s proud of her (he is). He doesn’t tell her he’s relieved (he is).

Instead, Matt offers her a grin. “First time for everything?”

“Something like that,” she scoffs in reply. Jessica taps her knuckles to his shoulder. “See you in there, Murdock,” she says, quiet, before walking back inside.

Before the door to the bar closes all the way, the bell jingles and it’s pushed open again. Matt’s spine straightens at the sound of Frank Castle’s shuffle-drag-step. “Frank,” he says, flat. His knuckles curl impossibly tighter around his cane.

Frank grunts. Matt can hear the click of a lighter. Then smoke. Different than the cigarette smoke from tour. It’s less acidic. Earthier. Frank wheezes as he exhales. “You sort that shit out, Red?”

Matt swallows. “Working on it,” he replies.

“Huh.” His inflection is – disdainful.

There’s a protracted silence where Matt can smell Frank’s cigarette smoke; hear the deep drags he takes. Matt writhes in that silence, his fists clenching and unclenching around his cane.

Matt’s here, Matt’s trying. He hasn’t spoken to Elektra since he walked away from her. He deleted her number and lost the password to the Black Sky bandcamp account. Isn’t that _enough_?

“It’s not that easy, Frank,” he says, finally, bitterness coating his words.

“What, you want this to be easy, Red?” Frank returns, matching Matt’s acidity.

“ _No_ ,” Matt spits. “That’s not what I meant – Jesus, Frank. I’m –” His jaw ticks, teeth grinding together as he tries to find the words, to explain, to make Frank stop being such a goddamn asshole. “I’m trying. I’m trying, alright? I’m trying to fix this, Frank. Goddamnit.”

Frank snorts. “Only way outta this is if you grow wings, Red.” Matt hears the shift of ash as he puts out his cigarette; the heavy drag of his gait as he turns and walks back into the bar.

Matt curses under his breath. Fuck Frank and his – fucking. Shit. Matt knows what he has to do. How much work he has to put into this.

He crosses himself and walks back into The Chaste.

“Matt!” Luke calls once he’s inside, shouting over the din. He can hear The Mutants breaking down their set. It’s almost time for their own.

He works his way through the crowd. It’s a full house tonight and it makes Matt’s heart rate spike. It’s not just that he’s playing new music and Claire’s going to be here. So are over a hundred and fifty other people. This is fine.

“Matt,” Danny says once he makes his way to stage. His hand claps down on Matt’s shoulder in greeting. “You okay? Where were you?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding, waving Danny’s concern off as he shrugs out of his grasp. “I’m fine.”

“You ready for this, man?” Luke asks.

Matt nods again. He’s pulling his monitors from his pocket when he realizes that – yes. He is. He’s nervous, but. He wants to be here. Matt folds his cane. Jessica takes it for him, practiced motions honed from months of playing together and two weeks on the road.

“Are you?” he asks Luke, throwing him a grin before he pulls himself onto the stage.

For the first time since before their tour, they don’t open with _Lit Me Up_. This time, it’s on Matt to bring them into the set.

Matt sucks in a breath, crossing himself one more time. He thinks about his conversation with Frank and starts to play. “ _It's hard to walk through all the places that your life used to be in_ ,” he croons, slow and fraught.

The song has a careful, gradual build – one that requires all of them to be perfectly timed, hyper aware of each other. Danny, looping one of Matt’s chords while Luke sinks into the song, his bass an echo of the funk records Matt’s learned line his shelves. Jessica’s touch is the lightest in the song: a careful tinkling of cymbals. The heaviest note is her kick drum.

But then, at its height – the song deconstructs itself, an intentional dischord of Matt’s guitar as he wails, “ _Well, Goddamnit, you look so lovely but you sound, you sound, you sound so ugly!_ ”

And then. Matt falls out of the song, stepping back from his mic to strum his guitar while Luke takes his place.

Jessica, Danny, and Luke start the last verse, harmonizing, “ _Boy, we gave you every opportunity. Boy we gave our hands, to get you off your knees. Boy sat at our table and ate everything._ ”

Matt steps in again, shoulder pressing against Luke’s as they all sing together, “ _You say that you're still hungry? Then bite the plates and break your teeth_.”

Luke claps Matt’s back when the song ends. Danny gives an enthusiastic _whoop!_ Luke laughs next to him, stepping back out of the mic. And Matt feels buoyant.  

“We’re The Defenders,” he says, a smile starting to spread across his face. “ _Sancte Michael, defende nos in proelio ut non pereamus in tremendo iudicio._ ”

He strums his guitar, light, almost gentle; plays out a few chords to lead them into the next song. Danny slips in, a high whistle reaching up around his guitar; then Jessica and Luke join in together, anchoring the song. Matt leans into the mic and starts to sing.

Matt steps down on a pedal as Jessica’s drumming grows heavy, bending over his guitar as he changes chords. The mic knocks against his teeth as he leans back in. “ _You had me caught in your headlights, you were running me down._ ”

The song builds around his words. His fingers fly over pickups and frets. Matt’s heart times with Luke’s bass, which times with Jessica’s kick drum.

Danny comes out from behind his keys to sing into the mic with him. Matt sidesteps, turning so they’re both facing each other, Danny holding the mic between them. “ _I want to tell you we're alright!_ _Want to erase all your doubt_.”

Matt’s shoulder presses against Danny’s as he plays, focusing on the feeling of steel against his fingers, the heat of the lights beating down on them.

Danny knocks their heads together and Matt shakes him off, the motion so ridiculous it pulls a grin to his face as he slips away to weave in another loop, or maybe terrorize Jessica instead. He toes at his pedal board again. “ _Because I don't want to surrender,_ ” he sings, “ _or lose your face in the crowd. I finally found all my courage, it was buried under the house._ ”

It’s not enough, Matt knows, when they eventually step off the stage at the end of their set. But he tries to find a sense of victory in the way Jess elbows him in the side before pressing his cane back into his hand and murmurs, no scent of whiskey on her breath, “Your ten o’clock.”

He turns, a pang of confusion striking through him before he realizes, smelling bright herbs and antibacterial soap – _Claire._

“I gotta say,” she says, dulcet, “it’s good to hear you play again.” He can hear the smile in her voice. His fingers busy themselves with unfolding his cane to keep from reaching out to map the sound on her face.

“Is it?” he asks, breathless and laughing. Hope unfurls its wide wings in his chest, fool hearted and desperate. _Claire, Claire, Claire_.

“I like seeing you up there,” Claire replies. She reaches up, her fingers pushing his hair back. Matt shivers at the touch, surprised. Her touch is effortless, but it makes Matt feel weak in the knees.

“I miss you, Claire,” Matt murmurs, without thinking about it.

There’s a moment, when Matt realizes what he’s said and before she responds, that he hopes she missed it; didn’t hear him over the noise of the crowd as it starts to dwindle – their set had been the last of the night’s – Danny and Luke breaking down their gear.

It doesn’t work out for him that way, though. “Yeah?” she replies, low.

He swallows, panic-stricken. “Yeah,” Matt echoes.

She sighs, barely audible. “I didn’t think I was ever gonna see you again,” she says. “I was so… _mad_. And hurt.”

“I know,” he breathes.

Claire hums. Matth forces himself to remember how to breathe. He inhales lemongrass, just sweet enough to make his chest ache.

“Good,” Claire says, exhaling softly. Her fingertips – gentle and warm – catch on his chin. Matt goes utterly still. He can’t move, the urge to kiss her is so strong. He’s afraid to breathe.

She tilts his head to the side. “Your stitches healed nicely.” Another pause, one that leaves Matt searching. He feels like he should say something, anything – but. The words don’t come.

“I’ll see you Sunday,” she whispers, reticent. Her fingers slide down Matt’s jaw, slow enough that he’s leaning in just as she pulls away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, hey y'all. we made it! this chapter was… really hard to write. there's a lot of heavy shit here. but it's good, matt and jess are learning and growing as people and working through their shit. it's good! the latin matt speaks during their set is a version of the prayer to st. michael: "Saint Michael, defend us in battle that we might not perish at the dreadful judgment."
> 
> can you believe there's one chapter left of this fic? NEITHER CAN I TBH. but there's so much more to come from mic 'verse. there is now a [series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/823860) that you can subscribe to so you'll never miss a thing!
> 
> this fic would be absolutely nothing without the help of sadie, sam, and [musicspeakstoo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/musicspeakstoo). you all have my infinite gratitude for the grammatical edits, handholding, dialogue tweaks, character nitpicking, and letting me pester each and every one of you with highly specific questions about literally everything.
> 
> and lastly but certainly not least – thank you thank you thank to all of y'all who are reading, commenting, bookmarking, kudos-ing, rec-ing, and enjoying this fic. it started as something small and now it's 76k. y'all are the best readers ever.


	10. all of the songs are about you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which…… we make our triumphant return to complete _hold the mic_! this chapter has everything, familiar faces who are new to mic verse, leatherneck being the best, peak friendship levels, lots of song lyrics, matt giving a lot of confessions, jessica making good life choices, and more!
> 
> the song covered in this chapter by the defenders is "catholic knees" by taking back sunday
> 
> content warnings: alcoholism, substance abuse, intimate partner violence, physical abuse, child abuse, war, ableism – as always, let me know if i've messed up in any way. 
> 
> thanks to everyone who's followed along – i promise i was working on this every day. i'll see you all on the other side.

The room smells like cold pizza and Lysol. Coffee, too, if you stand by the snack table. Which Jessica’s not, because everyone’s standing by the snack table. And she doesn’t want to talk to anyone. She scratches the inside of her wrist and scuffs her boot against the green and white linoleum floor tiles.

She feels jittery – full of too much energy, too many thoughts. She wants a fucking drink. Jessica doesn’t remember having so many thoughts in her head all the time. They buzz like flies. She wants a drink. She doesn’t need to be here.

Jessica scans the room. There’s the snack table, with the four others; and a new girl, with long, long blonde hair and wide eyes. Everyone’s introducing themselves. Jessica doesn’t have the time. There’s Malcolm, setting up the chairs. She could go help him, but doesn’t plan on it.

“Hey, Jessica!” Malcolm’s voice calls, bright as ever. Goddamnit.

She’s shuffling her feet over before he even asks for her help.

“I think you should speak tonight,” he says, nonchalant, as he shoves out one particularly stubborn folding chair. “It’s Hope’s first time and it can help – hearing from new people, if you’re new.”

“How the hell would _my_ shit make her feel better?” Jessica asks, jerking her head over to where Charles is chatting to the new girl – Hope, presumably – and gesticulating wildly.

Malcolm shrugs. “Sometimes it’s nice to know you’re not the only one who’s just starting.”

Jessica scoffs as she unfolds the last chair. She drops down into it and kicks her feet out. Malcolm’s staring down at her with wide, brown eyes. She shoves a hand into her pocket and fingers over the coin there, thumb pressing into the raised _24_ in the center.

Malcolm’s still staring.

“Fine!” She hunches her shoulders. “Jesus.”

Her fucking sponsor.

He busies himself with calling over the rest, gentle and easy. Malcolm’s a doctoral student at NYU. Getting his degree in something something addiction recovery something something trauma mumble mumble. When he waves the rest of their group over, Jessica can see the old scars on the inside of his elbow. Dark shadows on a field of brown.

“Jessica,” Ruben says, sitting down next to her. He smells like baby oil and he’s wearing a shirt with a giraffe on it. “I brought you some banana bread.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, taking the offered plate stiffly. When he looks over to where Malcolm’s sitting, she steals a bite.

“Hi everyone,” Malcolm starts, warm, “it’s good to see you all.” He flashes them all a smile, big and wide. It’d be hokey, almost too much, if Jessica hadn’t done her research. It hadn’t been hard to find him and his story after they’d exchanged numbers.

She shouldn’t have looked up his record. But she did, and now she knows how hard-earned that smile is.

“I’m Malcolm and I’m an addict.” He says it so plainly, open in a way that makes Jess want to throw something. She doesn’t, and Malcolm continues, “I’d like to welcome you all to the Thursday night Addicts Anonymous meeting and extend a special welcome to our newcomer tonight. Would you like to you introduce yourself?”

Jessica’s gaze turns to Hope. She looks younger now, in front of her. There’s deep purple bruises under her eyes. Lack of sleep, Jess thinks. She wears long sleeves and looks at the floor. Her blonde hair falls in her face, nearly cutting her off from the group.

“Hi,” she says. Her voice is a little thin. “I’m Hope, I’m…” she inhales, sounding wet when she does. Jessica’s chest feels tight. Christ, if her eyes were blue – she’d look like Trish.  “I’m an addict.”

“Hi, Hope,” the room replies.

Malcolm does his thing – he reads from the Big Book that Jessica refuses to buy, rattles off his announcements – all while keeping the same kindness in his voice, each word painfully earnest. She tries her hardest not to zone it out, not to give into the urge she feels to stomp off with every word.

“Jess?” Malcolm asks, interrupting her thoughts. “Want to start us off? What step are you working on this week?”

Everyone’s eyes turn to her. She shrugs in discomfort, hunching her shoulders. Her thumb presses so hard against the chip in her pocket it hurts.

“Hi,” she mutters and suppresses a groan. “I’m Jessica. I’m… an alcoholic.”

_I’m an alcoholic piece of shit who bottled the person who might just be considered my best friend. Which is fucking stupid. Because I don’t have friends, they’re a goddamn liability. But I bottled him and because he’s some kind of self-flagellating Catholic shithead like the rest of you, he says he’s forgiven me, but –_

“Hi, Jessica.”

She cuts off her own thoughts. “And I’m two weeks sober.”

She takes a breath and starts to speak. “I don’t normally… do this shit, really. But whatever, I guess.” Another shrug. She studies a cockroach crawling over Ruben’s foot. He hasn’t noticed it. “I’m working on Step Two this week, because I don’t really buy this whole – _God’s gonna fix me_ crap –” the room laughs, Jessica thinks it’s a little nervous – “My – uh, my friend does.” She toes her boot against the floor. There’s a bubble in the linoleum tile. “Boyfriend, too. Except – what the hell has God ever done for them? Jack shit.”

Jessica thinks about Luke – about the brother in a jail cell he doesn’t talk about; about the photos of his parents that don’t show two people in love; about Reva’s grave. She thinks about Matt, who’d told her once, drunk, that he has to tell himself it was God’s will, that he was blinded.

She sighs. “I just don’t see the goddamn point –” Ruben’s face twists in offense. His eyes go big like he’s going to cry. Christ, he’s just a kid. Danny’s age, maybe. She winces despite herself. “Sorry,” Jess mutters before continuing. “But. I was talking to Malcolm about it, the other night.”

The Defenders had been playing a show at the Silent Barn, opening for The Young Avengers. She’d wanted a drink. She told Luke she was going to call Trish, who’d been in LA for some music award thing.

“And… maybe it’s not God that’s the higher power – for me,” she adds with a spare glance to Ruben. “Maybe it’s just reality. Admitting that this… shit is real. That I’ve done some really fucked up things. That I’ve _hurt_ people. People I care about. And I can stop denying it and do something about it now.”

The room is quiet. Jessica’s staring at her hands, picking at a loose thread on her fingerless glove. The room stays quiet.

She looks up – everyone staring at her, expectant. She scoffs. “That’s all folks.”

 

* * *

 

Matt’s fingers snap up over his pick-ups. He allows himself to pace – two steps left, turn and four back over and to the right – while Danny brings in the backing to the song, soft and rattling. He stops after two steps back to the right, his toe pressing on his pedal board to mark his place. 

Jessica’s drums clap in, a steady build – the side of her stick hitting the metal on her drum before she begins to play in earnest. He starts to sing the first verse, voice dragging low as he growls, “ _I live in yours and you in mine. Swallow the pitch that flows from the Earth_.”

And then he drops his chords, a lower octave. The song bursts – Luke’s bass a weighty sound on Matt’s back as his guitar races to keep the pace. He’s aware of one of his knuckles cutting open on the steel strings. He should play with a pick, but if he loses one, he’d never be able to find it again; his fingers are covered in little scars from his guitar these days.

“ _One more time with feeling_ ,” he sings, letting his voice sink into the wear he’s feeling – this is their second show this weekend and Matt had forgotten his own limits in the two and a half months since tour. But that’s okay; he knows how to adjust, now.

Danny joins him at the end of the chorus and they both shout, “ _Pass the plate and you sit back down, and go back to your hole in the woods under the ground_.”

Matt’s head moves in time with Jessica’s drumming, his body curling around his guitar while Luke and Jess decrescendo. He and Danny hold this song together – it’s a new one, and the timing has to be tight. It’s fun, cutting its teeth at a show on the Queens/Brooklyn line.

From the way Danny laughs as they jump back into the chorus, Matt growling so close into the microphone his lips brush metal, he thinks it’s going well. He can’t hear the crowd, but he can hear Jessica’s scoff. It’s a familiar sound – a sign Danny’s taken off his shirt again. Matt shakes his head to hide a laugh as he sings, “ _Fired up my fear machine, can’t help what they drove into me_.”

It’d been Jessica’s suggestion to move their cover into the middle of the set, to break up the onslaught of new material they’ve been writing (that Matt’s been writing). The song suggestion had been a joke, but Matt had latched on. There was something on the nose about it.

And – it gives Jessica a time to shine. She leads them into it, Matt’s guitar timing with the crash of her cymbals. Danny, like with the old cover, is charged with keeping the click track aligned with the guitar.

He leans into the mic. “ _Dusting off the old life from my Catholic knees_ ,” he groans. This song is rough – angry. And he takes the chance to sink into the feeling. He can tell, from the heaviness of Jessica’s kick drum, she’s taking advantage the same way.  

Matt can hear Danny moving, the drag of a cord across the stage – he’s going to Jessica’s drum, he thinks, climbing on top of her kick.

The theory’s proved right when Matt’s voice is joined by Danny’s, wailing, “ _Lord please my keep flat on the ground, Lord keep my feet flat on the ground_.”

A heavy thud as Danny leaps off Jessica’s drum, scuffling to join Matt at the front of the stage, laughing while they finish the song together. “You guys are fucking awesome,” Danny says to the crowd, spinning away with manic energy. “We have one more song for you guys.”

They’ve started to close on _Lit Me Up_ , and the graduation from closing with a cover feels – important. Even if it’s still disorienting to hear his own voice, clouded with static, coming from Danny’s direction as he teases out feedback on his guitar.

In the weeks since September, the final chorus has evolved, phoenix-like. Matt feels a curl of nervousness and the urge to turn to Jess, ask if this is okay – even two weeks since they’ve been playing the new ending – as he sings, “ _It lit me up like a rag soaked in gasoline, in the neck of the bottle breaking right at my feet_.”

The song closes, Danny’s synth louder than the rest of their instruments, as Matt almost croons, soft, “ _It was a good dream_.”

He tugs out his monitors and the sound of the crowd – a cacophony of cheers, clapping, and hollering – rushes through his ears. The sound bolsters Matt’s heart, spreads something more tangible than exhilaration through him. Joy. Matt feels joy.

“Thank you,” he breathes into the mic. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Danny finishes for him, infinitely more sociable. “We’re The Defenders. Young Avengers are up next, but if you’re cool, we’ll be in the back with download cards for our EP.”

 

* * *

 

Jessica asks for a cup of ice at the bar. Luke sits next to her, her ankle hooked around his. The venue is muggy – the throng of bodies throws off waves of heat that makes the hair slipping out of her ponytail stick to the back of her neck. She chews the ice. It doesn’t help much, but it’s better than doing nothing at all. 

Matt’s nervous laugh sounds off just a few feet away and she turns her head, snorting when she sees him with Danny, talking to some kid who looks like he’s maybe fifteen. Reedy and thin with a mop of brown hair and a camera. The kid gesticulates wildly, almost pitching his camera into Matt’s face.

Jessica watches him lean out of the way.

“You ever think it’s weird, how he can do that?” Luke asks, leaning in to be audible over the sound of Young Avengers’ plugging in their instruments. His arm curves around the back of her barstool and Jessica leans into his weight.

“You know,” she says, quiet thanks to the twist of guilt that reaches up her throat a wraps itself around her tongue at the memory, “I never really have.”

It’s a lie.

She’d asked, unable to stop thinking about the way her shoulder had _ached_ for days after he’d tried to get her to leave The Chaste. About how in her fractured, brown-out memories she managed to remember a perfect crystalline image of the way Matt’s face had shifted when her fist made contact with his nose. The stillness in him.

And Matt had sighed in reply. They were playing together – Jessica’s spare floor tom in front of her, Matt playing his acoustic, teasing out another new song Matt’s been writing. He knocked his knuckles against the body of his guitar before he spoke.

 _My foster dad_ , Matt’s voice was defeated. Tired. _He was blind, like me. Taught me how_ guys like us _–_ his face contorted at the phrase – _survive. Taught me how to fight, how to get around without anyone’s help_.

Jessica had scoffed. Unable to believe that a blind man taught a blind kid to fight, she’d questioned him. 

Matt laughed. _You’d be surprised._ Then his face shuttered. He teased out a few more chords. Jessica looked away, worrying her lip. She shouldn’t have said anything.

 _He used to take me out on the subway, to stops I’d never been,_ Matt said, making Jessica pause again. _Then he’d get on a different train and tell me that he’d see me at home._

She told him about Trish’s mom – drugging her up, knocking her around, making her starve herself. The story just came out. It felt fair, to tell. 

Which is why she isn’t going to tell Luke. Or Trish. Or anyone else, about why Matt’s able to manage half the shit he does. Some shit that’s buried needs to stay buried.

“Hmm,” Luke replies, nodding twice. “Might just be me, then.” Jessica can’t tell if he’s caught the lie, but it doesn’t matter. Matt and Danny are making their way back over.

Danny’s shirt has returned, though it’s only buttoned to his sternum, shitty tattoo still flashing under the lights of the venue. His hair’s curling wetly with sweat. Matt’s still flushed – clearly uncomfortable with wherever that conversation went.

“Have fun?” she asks, smirking over to them. She knocks a few more ice cubes back. They’re mostly melted from the heat. They finish melting on her tongue. 

“Yeah!” Danny beams. “That’s Peter. He wants to shoot us for his school’s newspaper –”

“– _High school_ –” Matt interjects.

Danny continues, undeterred, “Which is obviously, so cool, and he lives in Queens, but commutes to Manhattan every day to go to a magnet school, because the schools in his neighborhood are so underfunded, so maybe we can do some sort of benefit, you know, to –”

“Slow down, Mr. Gates,” Jessica says, holding up her hands.

“Man, you really have to get over your whole aversion to college thing, because you could really use some classes on economic justice,” Luke adds. “You _have_ New School money. Pay them to teach you how to care about poor communities of color.”

“But Peter’s –”

“I swear to God, if you try to tell me that Peter being white means the school funding in Queens has nothing to do with race I’ll punch you so hard you’ll get knocked to another plane of existence,” Jessica cuts him off.

There’s a bright laugh behind them. Jessica wheels, twisting around in her seat to find the source.

It’s a guy – tall, with thick shoulders and close-cropped, sandy blond hair. He’s older – older than Frank, by maybe ten years. Forties, she thinks, from the laugh lines around his bright blue eyes. Maybe early fifties, if he’s in really good shape. He’s wearing a bomber jacket, vintage enough to make Trish swoon, judging by the fraying at the cuffs and the cracks in the leather at his elbows. Dark skinny jeans.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he says, easy, genial. He flashes them a great big all-American looking smile. As his face shifts, Jessica notices a flash of silver on one ear – there’s a stack of silver going up the side. The other has a hearing aid curved around the cuff.

“And you are?” she demands, sizing him up.

“Steve Rogers,” he says, extending a hand towards her.

Oh, shit.

Danny’s hand slides in to shake Steve’s, covering for Jessica’s moment of hesitation. “Wow, Mr. Rogers, hi,” Danny breathes. He clasps both hands around Steve’s in greeting.

It’s absurd enough to snap Jessica back into the moment, snorting quietly at Danny’s handshake. Of course he’d be like this in front of Rogers. 

He’s _the_ man behind Marvel Records – the city’s most revered DIY label. They’ve been in business for twenty years, recording the best punk bands the boroughs have given birth to since the late nineties – Gifted Youngsters, Hellfire Club, Red Ledgers, Leatherneck. And he’s here, introducing himself to them.

Rogers seems to be the only person unphased by Danny’s entire existence and shifts his attention seamlessly, smiling as he shakes Danny’s hand. “Please, don’t. Steve’s fine.”

“Didn’t know you left Brooklyn these days, Steve,” Luke says, friendly.

He laughs again at the tease. “Technically this is the Brooklyn line,” Rogers replies.

“Ah, so you’re meeting us at the gates then,” Luke returns, nonchalant. Danny’s gawking. Jessica reaches for her now-empty cup of ice, just to have something to help hide her snort. Power Man was on Marvel.

“Somethin’ like that,” Rogers says, setting his hands on his narrow hips. He’s still flashing that forties matinee idol smile. His accent is thickly Brooklyn.

“What, uh,” Matt starts, both his hands wrapping around the handle of his cane as he shifts his weight to lean forward; a nervous tic. “Can we do for you… Steve?”

Jessica smirks at the clear offense Matt’s Catholic school manners take at calling Rogers _Steve_.

“Well I’d like to talk to ya about coming onto Marvel,” Rogers says simply. “Making a record, too, hopefully.”

The words land, heavy and impressive. Jessica leans back in her seat. Signing to a label. Making a record – not one done on Danny’s laptop (which costs more than all of Jessica’s worldly possessions put together, but still). Something more. On Marvel.

“ _Really_?!” Danny cries. It’s so loud that he draws the glare of a girl nearby, who’s clearly trying to watch the show and enjoy her life with as minimal Danny Rand interference as possible. Jessica throws her a sympathetic look.

Steve laughs. “Yeah,” he says with a nod. “If that’s something you’d all be interested in.”

Jess makes eye contact with Luke, searching for a direction. He meets her gaze and shrugs. The tell, however, is the slight curve of the left corner of his mouth; the way his goatee quirks when he’s trying to hide his smile. The way his nose scrunches.

Matt inhales. Jessica looks to him next. He’s leaning back now, index and middle finger pinching the loop on the end of his cane. She can’t see his eyes for his glasses, but his mouth inches up despite the surprise in his face, jaw working.

Jessica allows herself to feel the excitement like a balloon expanding behind her sternum. Signing. An album. It seems too – too good to be true. But she gets a thrill all the same. Rogers works with people she trusts – Luke, obviously, but Leatherneck too.

Still, there’s the gray lining of this silver cloud – anxiety, catching her words like a trip wire. “You got a card or something, Rogers?” she asks, leaning forward and bracing her elbows on her thighs.

He nods. His smile doesn’t falter, but Jessica watches his eyes – they narrow, just enough for her to know she’s being studied. She looks back. “That I do,” Rogers says, withdrawing his wallet – more cracked leather, worn from use and age. He passes Jessica his card – the type on the stock is raised, a bit tacky under the pads of her fingers. Old fashioned letterpress. She can’t make out the design in the low light of the bar, but when she flips it over, she finds now familiar – though unreadable – bumps of braille on the back. Huh.

Instead of tucking the card into her pocket, she nudges Matt and passes it to him. His fingers find the braille easily. When he opens his mouth to speak, Rogers interrupts. “Give me a call when you’re ready, alright?”

Danny moves to say something – but it’s silenced with a quiet yelp as Matt puts the end of his cane down on Danny’s foot. “Thank you,” he says, effusive.

Jessica watches the bob of Matt’s throat in the bar lights. “We’ll be in touch.” She watches him slip the card into the back pocket of his jeans.

Rogers nods. “Good,” he replies, shoving his hands into the pockets of his bomber. “Take care,” he adds, before walking away.

Even Danny’s silent as Steve disappears into the crowd – the flag and eagle on the back of his jacket retreating behind bodies.

It’s Luke who breaks the silence. “Did that really just happen?”

 

* * *

 

Matt runs into Claire while he’s leaving the confessional on Wednesday night – literally. He’s not paying attention and is tapping out in the opposite direction from where she’s coming and she barely manages to call out his name in time for his hand to come up and catch her forearm.

“Claire!” he breathes. “Shit, I’m sorry –”

She laughs, brief. Her fingers press against his arm. “You okay there?”

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles back, feeling the back of his neck heat. He ducks his head. “Aside from my bruised pride?”

She hums, another laugh hiding in the sound. “Your pride can take it.” Claire’s fingers squeeze his arm again before dropping the contact between them. He tries not to mourn the loss of her touch, but his heart is racing away.

There’s a beat of silence – pregnant, awkward. Matt would trade anything to make it otherwise. “How was the show?” she asks, exhaling loudly.

“Good –” he starts, earnest. Excitement runs down his spine, thinking about it. About the business card in his wallet printed in type and braille. “We got approached by Marvel.”

Claire wolf-whistles. “Really?” she asks. Matt can hear the brightness in her voice, familiar eagerness and the sound of her smile. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. “Matt, that’s amazing. Are you going to sign?”

And yet, he’s unable to keep from grinning in her direction. “We’re thinking about it,” he says, shrugging slightly. Jessica’s hedgy about it – neither Matt nor Luke can blame her. Her sobriety is so new, they can’t fuck it up by making her rush into something this important.

“Danny’s gunning for it,” Matt adds with a laugh.

“You’re not?” Claire asks, gentle. Matt can hear her shift her weight, the sound of fabric and the creak of her bag when she adjusts it.

He shakes his head. “I am – I think,” he replies. He doesn’t mean to sound hesitant until he does, which is. Unexpected.

Claire, though, she sees right through him even when he can’t. “Because of…” It’s in the way she trails off.

And she’s not wrong. Not quite right, because it’s – larger than Elektra. It’s Claire, too. It’s the songs he’s been writing, their confessions and the way they flay him open for anyone to see. It’s one thing to do that for a room of one hundred and fifty people. It’s another to do it for Marvel’s far-flung reach.

“Steve Rogers wants to record us,” he replies instead.

“Figured that would come with the territory of signing to Marvel,” Claire teases, shifting her weight again. Her fingertips bump into Matt’s side. He wants to sink into the touch. Instead, he locks his knees.

Matt laughs, though, despite himself. “Do you think we’re ready for that?” he asks, low. _Do you think I’m ready for that?_

“Yeah, Matt,” she murmurs. Claire’s hand comes up when he isn’t expecting it, fingers pushing through his hair. Her thumb curves around his ear, pressing over a thin scar courtesy of broken glass. Matt inhales, deep, immersed in her familiar lemongrass and mint scent. No antiseptic. She must not have worked yet today. She smells beautiful. “I do.”

His jaw works for a moment – unable to parse this feeling. It’s tight and warm, all at once; a messy knot of guilt and love and fear and want.

“Thank you, Claire,” he whispers back as she drops her hand. Her name is his favorite thing to say.

Matt forces himself to leave. She’s clearly here for confession and not for him and, really, he’ll see her tomorrow (though briefly - he’s got court until the late afternoon).

“Hey, St. Matthew,” Claire calls, just as he starts to turn. The old nickname is a warm, though painful, tug on his gut. He stops moving. “Before you go, let me run an idea by you.”

 

* * *

 

Claire’s idea is this:

They take over The Chaste for Thanksgiving. The basement at St. George’s is too small for a large dinner, and the rectory kitchen can barely handle the Sunday coffee meet-up. And, as Claire points out, it’s more approachable to get a free meal at a bar than it is at a church, anyway.

Claire’s idea also includes:

The entire Leatherneck battalion arriving armed to the teeth with food the day of. Frank comes bearing a dish of lasagna that’s the size of a small child; Rachel brings two trays of tamales; Kathy shows up with twenty cans of beans and a case of beer; Micro brings two trips’ worth of food: pumpkin, pecan, and apple pies, a loaf of bread, and something they’re calling a _babka_ that smells strongly of cinnamon, powdered sugar, and deliciousness. Karen brings two Costco-sized packages of napkins.

Foggy, who’s skipping a massive Nelson family feast because Matt had asked, practically jumps away from where they’re rolling plastic forks and knives into napkins when the door opens.

“Woah, Micro, hey,” Foggy says, abandoning Matt where he’s standing at the bar. “Let me help you with those.”

That leaves Matt with a handful of plastic forks and Claire behind the bar, shouting over to Kathy, “Did you really bring a case of beer to a _bar_ , Kathy?”

She sets her load down on the opposite end of the bar. Matt can hear the knocking of aluminum cans together and the rattling of glass bottles as she does. “I also brought beans. Protein. It’s important, Claire. Don’t they teach nutrition when you become an EMT?”

Matt hears Claire curse in Spanish under her breath. He ducks his head, hiding a snicker.

“Where d’ya want these?” Frank asks. The food he’s carrying smells – amazing, if Matt’s being honest. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Here’s probably good,” Luke replies – he and Jessica have been pushing tables together for the better part of an hour, trying to figure out the best way to get them together for maximum seating.

“Hey, Matt,” Karen breathes, her heels clicking against the floor of the bar. He turns his head at the sound of her voice. “I brought, uh, napkins – should I…?”

“Uh, yeah,” Matt sidesteps, gestures with his handful of forks to an empty space on the counter – they’ve been using the bartop as a repository for homeless bowls of mashed potatoes, empty plastic cups, and now, Kathy’s contributions to the meal. “You can bring them here.”

“Great,” Karen murmurs. When she steps in close, Matt can smell her perfume, bright and citrusy (grapefruits, maybe), mixed with the richer, spicier scent of tobacco. He didn’t think Karen smoked, but he doesn’t bring it up. (Ultimately, the scent’s better than Danny’s vape _or_ Frank’s menthols, both of which are permanently burned into Matt’s sense memory after tour.)

“Thanks for coming,” he says.

“Sure, yeah,” Karen replies, easy, as she sets down her napkins. “Frank seemed pretty excited that you and Claire were doing this –”

Matt interrupts her with a laugh that bursts out of him unintentionally. “Frank Castle experiences excitement?”

She huffs and Matt can hear Karen crossing her arms, her toe tapping against the bar’s sticky floor. “He’s a person, Matt, so yeah,” she says, low – defensive.

He winces at himself and raises his hands in supplication. “I just meant –”

“That Frank’s not really the most forthright with his emotions?” Karen supplies, pointed. They both know that’s not exactly what Matt was going to say and it’s significantly more fair than his initial response.

“I –”

“That’s what I thought,” Karen mutters and then Matt hears her tug a bag of plastic utensils close. She starts wrapping them in napkins.

It’s the first time he’s really… been around Karen, since tour. Since his argument with Frank, Matt realizes. He stops at the realization, his hands stilling. Karen smells like cigarettes. Karen doesn’t smoke. Frank smokes. Karen came here with Frank. Karen hasn’t spoken to Matt since he fought with Frank. _The fuck –_

Oh, _fuck_. Matt hangs his head, fingers rolling a plastic fork against the bartop. _Excitement_ isn’t a word Matt would place in Frank’s vocabulary. He’s known Frank to be amicable, wry, and snide. Those are all words in the _realm_ of ‘happiness’ he’d assign to Frank Castle.

But Karen Page, Matt realizes abruptly, might have a different kind of perspective.  

It’s while Matt’s trying to figure out what to do with the realization – Frank’s got to be like, ten years Karen’s senior, and he’s _Frank_ – that Claire snickers from behind the bar and Matt’s flush spreads from the back of his neck over his ears. _Shit_.

He’s spared, however, from having to try and wrap his head around the knowledge that Karen and Frank are _together_ by the door opening again, bell ringing as it does and Frank’s voice calling, “Hey Cap. Sarge. In ‘ere.”

Matt’s head snaps up in surprise. He doesn’t remember Claire inviting anyone else, just that she’d spread word about their community meal. He supposes it makes objective sense, that Frank – contrary and anti-social as he may be – somehow seems to know everyone in their neighborhood, and would therefore know whoever’s walking in the door. But.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” Steve Rogers’ familiar Brooklyn accent cuts through the room, as two pairs of heavy footsteps come towards the bar. Matt’s hands still.

“Hey Steve,” Claire returns, easy, like this is _normal_. “We’re just finishing setting up.” There’s more footsteps – Matt thinks he counts at least five or six pairs. Claire adds, louder, “Have a seat wherever you like, folks.”

“Anything we can do to help?” a voice Matt doesn’t recognize – a tenor with an accent that’s indeterminable, like it’s been almost rubbed away – asks.

“Sure,” Claire says. Matt hears her slip out from behind the bar, the sound of her grabbing sleeves of cups off the bartop. “You can help by taking a seat.” Another pause. “You too, Rogers.” Her footsteps are light when she pauses by Matt and Karen. “Grab those roll-ups?”

“Sure,” Karen says, taking one of the baskets Matt and Foggy have spent the last hour or so filling. Her heels click as she walks away, the sound easily lost in the screech of chairs being pulled out, conversation between whatever crowd’s just walked in mixing with Jessica ribbing Danny and Kathy cackling at one of Micro’s jokes.

“Matt?” Claire asks, lower. “You coming?”

 

* * *

  

When Steve Rogers walks through the door of The Chaste on Thanksgiving, followed by a guy with lanky dark hair that’s falling out of a loose bun (and who looks like he hasn’t slept well in more years than Jessica), and _him_ closely followed by a half dozen _more_ people (of varying ages, wearing clothes in varying stages of disrepair), Jessica shoots Luke a look of bewilderment. Trish gives Jessica a matching one, mouthing, _Steve Rogers?_

Luke only shrugs in reply, the corner of his mouth quirking up just enough to tell Jess that he clearly _knows_ what’s up. She scowls at him, and his careful smirk melts into a full grin as he ducks his head, shoulders quaking with silent laughter.

“Jackass,” Jessica mutters as they sit down at the end of the table she’s deciding is ‘theirs’. She takes a seat next to Matt. Claire sits at the head of the table, Matt at her side. Trish folds into the empty chair across from Matt. Castle and Page are already seated, across from Jessica and Luke.

“Cap an’ the Sarge work with vets,” Frank explains, his eyes catching Jessica’s expression. Christ, he doesn’t miss much. “They’re good people. Helped me out when I got back.”

Huh. Jessica takes the information with the same wry regard she reserves for city hall archives or combing trash cans: carefully and without expression.

Except this time, instead of sipping on whiskey, she takes a bowl of mashed potatoes and starts to shovel some onto her plate. She spares a glance down the table, where Rogers – _Cap_ , she assigns, she did her research – holds out a chair for his husband. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes flips him the bird with his right hand, metal flashing as a prosthetic left hand steadies the chair when he sits.

“Well, shit,” Jessica mumbles, “let’s hear it for Captain America.”

Barnes snorts three seats down. Damn, he’s got good hearing, considering his husband spent most of the seventies and eighties building New York City hardcore with his band _Howling Commandos_. “S’what I said,” he adds, the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, flashing like a knife.

“They do good work, too,” Luke adds. “I know a guy who used to come through Pop’s, helps out with them sometimes –”

“You know Sam?” Rogers interjects, adding a quiet _thank you_ as Foggy passes a serving of Frank’s lasagna to his plate.

“Used to,” Luke says, too easy. Jessica leans her knee against his thigh. She can pick out the emotion in his words. He’s the best at hiding his grief out of all of them, but Jessica won’t let him suffer it alone. “Before Pop passed and the shop changed hands.”

Rogers nods, expression softening. Enthusiasm tempered by sympathy. The pause in the conversation says everything – they all know Pops didn’t pass peacefully. Rogers holds Luke’s gaze for a beat before his bright eyes dart to Barnes’. “Think we should bully him into remembering to visit old friends?”

The brief smirk Barnes had thrown Jessica spreads into a wide grin. “Shoot, Steve, you know I love making Wilson wet his pants a little.”

Jessica feels the tension in Luke ease, slightly. She dumps mashed potatoes onto his plate.

Conversation strikes up as folks start to eat. Foggy and Page are having an animated discussion about - an eel? She catches Rachel speaking in rapid-fire Spanish with one of the people Steve’s brought: a girl with a tangle of dark brown curls and a bomber jacket that’s so precise in detail she thinks it might be handmade. She catches Claire’s eye for a brief moment, when she’s inclining her head to talk to Matt, all smiles that he can’t see, her fingers tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she laughs gently at whatever Matt’s told her.

Trish asks Rogers about the work he does with veterans because she’s Trish, and she’s always looking for something new to do with her Patsy royalties. Jessica doesn’t get the weird guilt Trish has over being wealthy, but when she looks down the long line of pushed together tables and her eyes settle on a kid who can’t be older than twenty with eyes so wide she’s afraid they’re stuck that way, Jessica decides she’s not going to rib her for wanting to save the world today.

Halfway through the meal, Kathy starts to distribute cans of cider that Jessica hadn’t even _seen_ her bring inside – from their end of the table, she and Frank are the only two to decline. Kathy doesn’t even ask Frank, just passes over him to offer one to Page.

Frank regards her with careful, guarded eyes. Maybe Jess looks at him half a beat too long. Maybe that bullet to the skull made him fucking psychic, she has no goddamn idea. But Frank's looking back at her now regardless, thumb tapping eighth notes on the tabletop: _one-two, one-two._  

"Not tonight?" Frank asks, casual and without preamble. She catches the quirk of Trish’s mouth, expression shifting in confusion as Frank’s gravelly voice catches her attention. But Jessica knows exactly what he’s referring to. She spares Trish a _it’s fine_ glance, even if she’s clenching a fork in her hand so hard she can feel the plastic heat and bend.

"It's something I'm trying out," she replies, a sardonic monotone.

Frank's gaze flicks down to the tabletop and back up to Jessica's face. He's… rocking, almost imperceptibly. A tiny side-to-side motion that gives the impression that he's moving and sitting very still at the same time. The effect is unsettling, but she doesn’t look away.

Instead, Jessica jerks her chin at Frank's glass of water. "And you're sure as hell not the designated driver."

It’s something that she learned early on tour – Frank doesn't drive.

And she never saw him imbibe a drop of alcohol either, now that she thinks about it. She frowns at herself, annoyed she hadn’t noticed before.

Frank grunts. "Shit. Last time I got off the wagon, they found me in traffic on Ninth. Cops showed up." He looks at his plate, tears a slice of bread in half. Jessica blinks.

"In traffic?"

"Looking inside people's cars." He meets Jessica's eyes, matter-of-fact. "Had a few beers. Made me confused."

She raises an eyebrow despite the voice of better judgement that chimes in, sounding like Trish, a beat too late: _don’t –_

“Thought I was lookin’ for somebody,” he clarifies, gruff.

They both go quiet, then. Frank rocking-but-not-moving and Jessica bending back the prongs on her plastic fork with her index finger.

She’s reminded of something she learned a ways back. Something which – like a lot of shit lately – takes on a new clarity now that she’s confronting it without the aid of whiskey: Frank Castle doesn't give a shit about making things weird. She thinks he might do it on purpose.

"Yeah, well," she finally answers, "it makes me an asshole."

"Red probably deserved it, all things considered."

Jessica freezes for a second – a brief flash of anger, of _how the_ fuck _does Frank Castle know about_ – before feeling her face heat. Her eyes slide to Matt on instinct. She can’t even see the scar she knows is there, left by her whiskey bottle. It curls around the cowlick at the back of his head. Jessica knows it’s there because she watched it form as his hair’s grown back.

"It wasn't –" she starts, pissed, before catching Frank's expression, the harsh fucking humor hidden somewhere in his mock-confused frown. Like he has no earthly idea why what he just said might get a rise out of her.

Jessica cuts herself off, both eyebrows raised. She doesn’t let herself fucking smile.

"You're a prick."

"You got that right." Frank looks over Jessica’s shoulder and takes a swig of his water.

She reaches for her own unconsciously, her mangled fork forgotten. The water is cool on the back of her throat, ice melting away on her tongue. Page shoves green beans from her plate onto Frank’s. He responds by forking lasagna onto hers, without breaking eye contact with whatever’s on the wall behind Jessica.

It’s then that she finally looks away, feeling too much like she’s intruding. Her gaze is drawn to Rachel, who addresses their end of the table just as Jessica’s eyes land on her red hair.

“Rogers said you signed,” she asks, just loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the rest of the table, before eating a bite of her turkey. “Have you guys decided on recording yet?”

Jessica can literally _feel_ the heat of the flush that crawls up the back of Matt’s neck. Goddamn Irish prick. He chuckles, the sound shot through with nerves. “We’re thinking about it.”

Meaning – they all want to do it, really. She’s seen it in his eyes and felt the desperate wanting in her own guts. But. She’s also heard the stuff Matt’s been writing.

Putting that shit out there isn’t really going to be easy. For either of them, really. Matt’s writing about someone else, but she can place her own stupid in his metaphors.

“You _should_ ,” Micro says, bright. Their grin is wide, dimples so deep Jessica thinks she could fit her whole thumb inside one. It makes them look young. “Like, first of all, you’re good. Second, Marvel’s great. _Steve’s_ great. And _thiiiird_ –” here they flash a wide, Cheshire Cat-like smirk, “I’ll sound engineer it for _free_.”

Kathy snorts. “Micro Chip, baby, you do everything for free.”

“That’s because money is a tool for the bourgeois to keep the poor subservient to and dependent upon them, _obviously_ , Kath, c’mon,” they retort, instantly. They roll their eyes before looking between the four of them.

Jessica watches, further down the table from her, Danny’s brow furrow. “Hey –” She braces herself, only to watch Colleen flick peas straight from the pod at him, catching him by surprise. He recovers. “That would be so cool,” he says to Micro, then adds, “Guys. C’mon, it’s like we were _meant_ to do this.”

Jessica looks from Luke – who shrugs, mouth full of stuffing – to Matt, who does the thing where he doesn’t quite smile and doesn’t quite frown. It’s his own version of a shrug.

“Guys,” Danny insists. His eyes are a bit wide now, baby blue and bright. “It’s not like we’re not writing anyway.” His curls bounce with enthusiasm. “Matt. C’mon.”

Jess spares Rogers a glance – he’s got one arm thrown around the back of his husband’s chair. His attention is trained on the kid, who’s talking and slowly picking apart a heel of bread with his hands.

Matt sighs next to her and rubs his hand over his forehead, rucking up his hair in the process. Jessica fights the urge to snort because it’s not fair, probably, to make fun when Matt can’t see his hair. “Fine,” he sighs. “What the hell.”

It stuns their end of the table into silence.

Danny opens his mouth once and then twice, as if he’s swallowing back the rest of his pleas. Doing a hard reset.

“Seriously?” Luke asks, tilting his head towards Matt’s direction.

He nods in reply. “I’m not thrilled to admit it,” he says, sighing, “but Danny’s not wrong.”

“Seriously?” Danny echoes.

Matt shrugs, mouth folding again. “Yeah,” he says, laughing.

She looks from Matt to Luke on her other side, to Danny a few seats away. They’re all nodding – carefully, slowly. Shit. This is happening. _Shit_.

Jessica takes a deep breath, tries to steel herself. She wishes she could have drink. Instead, she leans against the table, looking down the long line, past Luke and Trish, past Danny and Colleen, past Leatherneck and Foggy, all the way to the end of the table.

“Hey Rogers!” she calls. His gaze – and that of everyone around him – snaps to her. “You good with Micro recording The Defenders record?”

 

* * *

 

The Marvel Studios are impressive. Or at least, Matt thinks they might be considered impressive. The booth isn’t insulated with mattresses tucked against the walls, and there’s glass between the mixer and the booth itself. He spends some time mapping out the inside of the booth, tracing the walls with his hand as he walks around its perimeter. He realizes, halfway through his second lap of the room, that Steve has taken everything out of the room – there’s nothing to interrupt his path. When it hits him and he looks up in surprise, he hears Rogers chuckle through the open door to the mixer. 

“Figured we could just move the mics back in when you’re done,” he offers by way of explanation.

Matt opens his mouth once, twice. He doesn’t know how to thank him – it’s. A level of specific and subtle accommodation Matt’s rarely – if ever – experienced in his life. “Tha–”

“Don’t mention it,” Steve cuts him off. “I’ve been deaf in my left ear since I was a kid. Scarlet fever, couldn’t shake it.” He speaks matter of factly, like he’s recounted this information more times than he can count. Matt’s familiar with it.

He nods in reply, fingers playing with the loop on the end of his cane.

“Think this’ll work though?” Rogers asks, stepping a little closer.

Luke, who’s in the room with Matt currently – Jessica’s on a lunch run, Danny’s with Micro in the other room investigating the sound board’s capabilities – says, “It’s great, Steve. Remodel looks nice.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, well, gotta give up on the mics strung together with paperclips at some point,” he admits. There’s a knock of knuckles against wood – Rogers rapping his fist against the doorframe, maybe. “As soon as you folks are ready, we’ll start getting the space set up.”

Jessica returns with sandwiches and they eat on the couch behind the soundboard. He hears the minute sounds of Micro’s fingers adjusting sliders and knobs – carefully fixing the adjustments Danny had made while waiting for Jessica to return.

Matt has to hide his smile in between bites of falafel.

It doesn’t take much longer after that, really, for them to start to set up the space. They’ve got two weeks with the studio – more, Steve had assured them, if they needed it, but Matt doubts it. Danny wasn’t wrong at Thanksgiving: he’s been writing a lot. The lyrics are all there, as is his guitar and most of Jessica’s drums. But now comes the part where they get to experiment.

They agree to mostly try for live takes for the first few days to allow for that, and to familiarize Micro with their process.

It’s a strange feeling, like they’re trying to practice, but Matt’s so aware of Micro on the other side of the glass. It draws cold flames of excitement up his spine. It’s – _new_.

All of this is new.

He’s made a record before. Black Sky recorded on Elektra’s laptop in her penthouse. The acoustics were good, it made sense. But this is entirely something else. This is a label behind them, a engineer on the other side of the wall, and his friends next to him.

Matt’s not re-writing memories anymore. He’s making new ones.

 

* * *

 

Thursday, three days into recording at Marvel, Matt leaves the studio early to meet with Claire at church. Thanksgiving’s past, but December’s just as busy as November at the food pantry, and if Matt’s already taken two weeks off work to record, he’s going to use his open schedule wisely. They’ve got to plan another community meal _and_ coordinate the parish giving tree. They’re going to be busy. They’re going to have to spend more time together; it’s that simple. 

It has absolutely nothing to do with the painful way Matt’s heart rate quickens when he breathes in her familiar lemongrass and mint scent. It has nothing to do with the acute tightness in his bones at the sound of her voice. Nothing at all.

Claire had been – _gentle_ with him at Thanksgiving. Her ankle hooked around his; elbow bumping his own; her hand smoothing over his hair, laughing at him when he’d rucked it up.

Matt _misses_ her, misses the brief month he’d had with her – where he could touch her openly, map her skin with his hands and his mouth. Christ. He’d been extremely competent at fucking that up.

And things have been – good. Not _great_ , not _better_. But _good_ ; Matt can say things are good. Because she laughs when he tells her about going out with Foggy the night before – Foggy moaning into his beer because he’d gotten drunk enough to get roped into karaoke with Karen, Micro and Kathy over the weekend.  

“Let me guess,” Claire says, and Matt can hear her shake with laughter. “He did _Wicked_ , didn’t he?”

Matt winces and shakes his head, fingers grazing over the labels on the jars of dry goods in the kitchenette. They’re working on cookies, for the baskets that will go out to families with children at Sunday’s mass. Matt’s not much for baking, but he’ll take the chance to work next to Claire. Their elbows bump together as she leafs through an old recipe book, donated by some parishioner long before either of them stood here, judging by the damp, old book scent coming off it.   

“Worse,” Matt confirms, grimacing. “ _Frozen_.”

“You planning his funeral then?” Claire asks, chuckling. “I don’t think Kathy’s going to let him live that one down.”  

Her laughter is musical and fills Matt with an unfathomable warmth, reaching deep in his chest and wrapping itself around his vital organs. Matt feels himself sway into the sound as he pulls down the flour. The jar’s light. “I don’t think we’ve got enough flour.”

She pauses in her work of searching out a recipe, the pages of the cookbook settling. “Here,” Claire says, “let me.” She moves into his space, stretching up to reach for a shelf above him. She reaches as he turns, Matt’s senses flood with the familiar scent of Claire (lemongrass, mint – clean, precise, beautiful) and the heat of her body (her middle presses against his hip, drawing his heart rate up, up).

He forgets what he’d hoped to accomplish by moving. Every thought turns into a single syllable: _Claire._  

Matt’s senses are blown wide open. He’s aware of one hip pressing into the counter (sharp, steady); the other pressed into Claire’s side (abdomen flush to his hip, the soft press of her body against his); her arm, reaching over his shoulder, close enough that if he were to tilt his head, his cheek would lay against her skin; the sound of her breath hitching when she realizes just how close they are.

Neither of them move.

He can’t breathe. If he does, all he can do is inhale _Claire_ , and if that happens he doesn’t know _what_ he’ll do. Because he remembers the taste of her – the taste of her skin, her mouth, her _cunt_  – and every memory is sharp as a knife tip in the dark. Acute, painful with wanting.

“Matt,” she whispers. It’s enough.

His free hand – one still set on the jar on the counter, a limb, a moment forgotten – wraps around her hip. Her skin, even through her blouse, is searing. He steadies himself on the jut of her waist and leans in. Matt remembers their exact height difference.

His lips graze against the corner of her mouth first, missing her lips, but just barely. Still, she tastes like homemade lemon and mint lip balm. She inhales, ragged, and before Matt is able to adjust, to correct himself, Claire’s tilting her head, nose dragging against his cheek, and claims Matt’s mouth with her own.

She makes a soft, wrecked sound when she pulls his bottom lip between her teeth. Matt’s graze her top lip and Claire’s hand drops from the shelf, sliding into his hair, tugging him down, closer, closer. Matt’s fingers fist in the cotton of her blouse, knuckles digging into her hip bone. He sucks on her lip, groaning – her mouth is soft, blooming open for him. She tastes like her lip balm and coffee and _Claire_ and it’s all that Matt has wanted for months. ( _Years_.)

Her breath hitches again, just as Matt works his tongue against the ridges at the roof of her mouth. They’re the same, the same, mapped and memorized by him this summer. He feels like he’s returning to his favorite place in the world. He teases his tongue against her own, knows it’s the way to get her toes to curl – he knows every trick of her body.

Except for the one where she lays her free hand against the flat of his chest and pushes – not hard, but steadily. Their mouths part with a wet, quiet sound and Matt’s ribs shatter.

“Matt,” Claire says, pained. Her voice is just above a whisper and it’s – tight. “Matt. I… We can’t do this.”

No. _No_. This isn’t how this goes. This isn’t the story, this isn’t how this is supposed to happen. “ _Claire_ –”

Her hand is still in his hair. Her fingers scrape his scalp, once. A quick scratch of her nails. He wants to touch her face – try to understand her expression, to understand _why_ she can’t do this. Because – she’d kissed him too. She wants him. He knows. He felt it.

Can’t she tell, can’t she feel the pounding of his heart under her palm? Can’t she tell he loves her?

“Tell me this is worth it, Matt,” she whispers. It sounds like each word has to be dragged from her chest, like they scrape up her throat as they’re pulled from her. They land like blows to Matt’s sternum. “Tell me _you’re_ worth it.”

“Claire,” he repeats – because. Because. He wants it to be, but he doesn’t know how to say it, how to say _Yeah, I’m okay with the fact that I fucked up and chose Elektra over you, that I think_ I’m _worth the suffering, the pain that caused_. Because – he’s not.

He’d heard Jessica and Frank at Thanksgiving. They think he didn’t hear, didn’t catch it, because he was talking with Claire and Trish about food justice in Hell’s Kitchen, because most people don’t know just how much he does hear, just how much his other senses make up for the missing one, but he did – _Red probably deserved it, all things considered_.

All things considered.

“I’m trying my best, Cla–” he whispers, but it’s too late, too little –

Claire’s hand curls into a fist against his chest and she sighs. “I think it’s a little more complicated than that, Matt,” she breathes, tapping her knuckles to his breastbone before dropping her hands away from him, slipping out from his grasp.

He can’t move. Matt is paralyzed. Stuck, rooted in this one spot, where he’d almost had everything again. But he’d been slow, stupid – or maybe, fuck, maybe just _right_ about himself. About them. About what he deserves.

“I’ll – I’ll stop by here before I go into the bar, finish these up,” Claire says, inhaling sharply. “I’ll… see you around.” Matt can hear the jingle of her keys, the sway of things in her bag as she grabs it off the card table.

“Claire –” he tries again, abortive. It’s no use. She’s trudging up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

They’re not playing shows while recording the album. Steve’s advance had been generous. More money than Matt could have ever thought they were worth. More than enough to cover both Matt and Luke’s missed work days – Jessica’s still working her cases, Matt can tell by the scent of the coffee pot burning well into the night and the sound of her laptop keys clacking in the wee hours. 

( _I believe in people_ , Steve had said, when Matt, Luke, and Jessica had questioned the check. _And to do that, they’ve gotta be able to eat._ )

So on Saturday Matt takes the E to Penn Station and gets on the North Jersey Coast Line.

It’s surreal, leaving the city entirely by himself. He feels a bit like he’s in a dream, listening to the thunderous clacks as the train moves down the coastline, over the Hudson, the Hackensack, the Passaic. The sound of traffic as the line intersects with the Parkway. Each mile feels like he’s slipping further and further into a different world.

Asbury Park smells like gasoline and the cold Atlantic. There’s less noise of seagulls now, the birds gone for the winter, Matt assumes. The town is quieter, too. He keeps his phone on, voice navigating him through a half-remembered walk.

It’s early still when he gets to the church. He sits on the bench outside and feels paint chipping under his thumb.

He doesn’t know how long he sits. Long enough that his nose starts to hurt with cold, despite the scarf he’s wrapped tightly around his neck and face. But eventually, footsteps – even, unfaltering – come up the walk.

A familiar rasp. “I was starting to wonder if you’d ever turn up again,” the Father says, bemused.

Matt winces. He shouldn’t feel _bad_ , because this isn’t his parish, isn’t the church he’s put years into. But still. He’d come all this way to confess, right?

“I’ve been, uh,” Matt swallows. “Busy.”

“Well,” the priest sighs in reply. “I’ll be inside, if you want to take Confession.”

Matt hums in reply. He should – he shouldn’t be here. This was stupid, foolish, maybe even a bit _insane_ , to come all the way to Jersey when he’s only left New York once in his goddamn life. This isn’t even his priest.

The father’s feet don’t move, though. He’s still lingering. “You know,” he says, slow and careful, “I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee first, though. Before getting to work.” He sighs again and Matt can hear him shift his weight. “Chamber of commerce donated one of those… fancy espresso machines. For meetings and stuff. I make a heck of a latte – if you’re interested.”

Matt exhales; he came all this way.

He nods.

There’s a side room in the church that the Father leads him to. Judging by the sharp smell of Lysol, Matt thinks it serves as a children’s room during services. But there’s a table where Matt sits while the priest futzes with the coffee maker. It hums loudly as it spits out espresso; the milk sounding like paper tearing as it froths.

“Sugar?”

“No,” Matt murmurs and shakes his head.

He can hear the sound of granules being poured into the priest’s cup. Matt wraps his hands around his own latte. It’s warm against his palms.

“So,” the priest starts, “what brings you back here? Playing another show?”

Matt frowns. “I never –”

“Not that hard to figure out,” he interrupts. “You sat in my confessional and debated a career in music.” Matt can hear the sound of the jar of sugar being set down. “And this is Asbury. We’re not unfamiliar to the type.”

“I’m here alone, Father –”

“Lantom,” the priest – Father Lantom – offers. Matt feels whatever else he’d planned to say dry out. Luckily for him, he supposes, Lantom continues, “So what then troubles you, Matthew?”

A spoon rattles against china.

“Do sinners deserve good things, Father?”

There’s a pause. The spoon stops. “As a whole?” Lantom asks, curious.

Matt frowns. It’s a question he hasn’t asked himself. “I – suppose,” he says, trying to understand it. “Yes,” he decides.

Lantom sighs. Matt listens to the creak of his chair as he adjusts, the soft sound of elbows being set on the old folding table. “You want the short answer or the long one?”

It’s not the reply Matt expected. He blinks, taken aback. His fingers play with his cane, folded on the table. “Just the truth.”

“Well,” Lantom begins. There’s a rattling of metal against china as he takes his spoon from his cup. A gentle sound as he takes a drink. Matt’s own coffee is forgotten. He doesn’t even drink unsweetened coffee. “When I was in seminary, I was more studious than pious, more skeptical than most of my peers. I had this notion – which I was more than willing to speak about, at length, to whoever I could corner –” this he adds fast, a bit amused, “That the Devil was inconsequential. Minor figure in the grand scheme.”

Matt raises an eyebrow in surprise – somewhat entertained by the father’s admission. “Not very Catholic of you,” is what he says in reply.

“Uh-huh, yeah,” Lantom echoes, soft. “In my defense, in the scriptures, the Hebrew word ‘Satan’ actually means ‘adversary’. It's applied to any antagonist: angels and humans, serpents and kings. Medieval theologians reinterpreted those passages to be about a single monstrous enemy. And, in my youthful zeal, I was certain I knew why.” He pauses, in what Matt thinks is for effect. “Propaganda. Played up to drive people into the church.”

Matt snorts despite himself. “So you don't believe he exists,” he concludes.

Lantom’s reply is sharp. “Am I done talking?”

Matt ducks his head, scolded. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“After I had taken my holy orders, I went to where I thought God needed me the most,” he continues. “To Vietnam.” Lantom's breathing is slow, weary. The chair creaks again. "So yes, Matthew, I believe the devil walks among us, taking many forms."

“Now these men, Matthew, these men who I saw live and die – they could very easily be washed away as sinners. Would you say that they didn’t deserve to come home, to start families, to have good things?”

“But if they were there for good reasons, then wouldn’t the reasons of just war absolve their sins?” Matt asks.

“And what of an unjust war, Matthew? And the soldiers who didn’t ask to be there? Or the ones who were there because they had nothing else?” Lantom replies, sharp. “The Lord’s prayer asks God to forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Forgiveness is – if you’ll recall from your time in my confessional – something that God offers _all_ his children who seek it.”

Matt worries the inside of his cheek and inclines his head in acknowledgement. He feels – shameful, foolish, for forgetting the draft, for not comprehending what Lantom was implying.

“And forgiveness, Matthew,” Lantom adds, gentler now, “is a good thing. All God requires of a sinner is to seek it: through words and action.”

 

* * *

 

If Matt’s avoiding Claire, no one is calling him on it. It might be that they’re all too busy with the second week of recording. The experimental phase is finished; now, they begin the process of getting down the right takes.

Matt should be leaving the booth tired enough that he doesn’t so much as want to _think_ about playing. There’s take after take of songs he’d already thought he could play in his sleep. He should want to _be_ asleep, Micro is so precise and demanding an engineer. (In a good way, Matt’s certain, but by the sixth take of _Waste_ even Matt’s tempted to do what Jessica does, which is chuck a shoe in Micro’s direction as she leaves the booth.) 

Except while Jessica, then Luke, and then Danny begin to track, he finds himself spread on the couch that’s tucked into the narrow space, teasing out a chord progression on Foggy’s old acoustic guitar, slowly, but surely.

It takes two days for Danny to pick up on it. Which he does, by sitting up from his position on the floor and digging his chin into Matt’s knee. “What is that?” he asks. “Is that a new song?”

“It’s nothing,” Matt tries to insist.

But Micro’s on his case too, more astute than Danny could ever be. “That’s a _song_. I know how chord progressions come together, Matthew.” There’s the sound of their chair rolling on the hardwood as they shift. “ _And_ you’ve been humming,” they add, sounding too amused with themselves. Traitor.

Luke’s voice comes then, returning from getting lunch, “Who’s humming what?”

“Nothing –” Matt starts.

Just as Danny says, “ _Matt_ wrote a song.”

Matt sits up, dislodging Danny from where he’s leaning against Matt’s knees. His fingers slide on the body of his guitar as he makes room for Luke to sit next to him.

“Matt writes lots of songs, Danny, he’s written all of the songs we’re recording,” Luke replies.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Matt sighs.

“So what’s special about this one?” Luke finishes and Matt groans in frustration. They’re all traitors.

Danny starts to speak, “He’s not –”

But he’s interrupted by the door to the booth flying open with a heavy _thud_. “Hey, assholes!” Jessica calls. “Someone wanna tell me why I’ve been left to dry in there?” she demands, her footsteps heavy as she walks into the room.

“Shit,” Micro breathes, apologetic. “Sorry, Jess. Danny –”

She sighs. “Say no more,” Jessica replies before saying, softer now, “Hey,” to Luke. Her footsteps stop at the couch and Matt doesn’t listen while she kisses him hello, gentle.

“Lunch?” Luke asks, low and happy. What Danny calls Luke’s _Jessica voice_ is tender and bright, a tone Luke doesn’t take with anyone else. Matt doesn’t like the curl of jealousy he feels when he hears it. He knows it’s irrational, to begrudge his friends’ happiness because he’d fucked up his own. But, alas.

There’s a rustling of paper bags and take out containers before a pair of chuckles from Jessica and Luke. “Jesus, Danny, he didn’t forget you. Here’s your General Tso’s.” Matt can hear the familiar sound of Jessica tossing Danny a takeaway box.

There’s some more quiet noises as the food is distributed, Jessica’s boots dragging against the floor as she sits down, chopsticks hitting a tabletop. Matt puts his guitar away and accepts pad thai offered by Micro.

“So what the fuck _were_ you all doing, anyway?” Jessica asks, mouth half-full of hot and sour noodles.

“Apparently,” Luke says, warm enough to tell Matt that he’s smirking, “Matt’s got some sort of secret song he’s not sharing.”

“Is it what you were working on the other night?” Jessica asks, immediately cottoning on. Matt silently curses her stupid investigator’s memory and tact.

“Uh, yeah,” he admits, finally, fiddling with his plastic fork, twining noodles around it aimlessly. “It’s nothing, really – it’s not, uh. Not for this, anyway.”

“Rude,” Danny retorts. He’s already finished his food and is now attacking someone’s side of rice with vigor. “We made a deal. Even if it’s weird, we still try it out.”

The deal – if Matt recalls it from seven months ago – was made because Danny pitched a fit that no one would let him try out a new set of keyboard tones and it had been the only way to shut him up.

“Danny’s right,” Luke adds, after swallowing his food. “We did make a deal.”

“We have some time,” Micro adds, cheery, “I think you guys have gotten down most of the record, so. It wouldn’t throw us off schedule.”

 _Traitors_. All of them.

He doesn’t let them put him in the booth to test out the song. They concede and Matt runs through it after they’ve more or less finished eating – Danny seems to keep finding fortune cookies in the bottom of the bag, but Matt doesn’t wait for him to finish. It’s better, if he’s distracted.

It’s easy to pluck out the notes. They’ve been a compulsion in his head since the train ride back from Asbury, stuck on his fingers like glue. No amount of shaking or playing has been able to get them off.

Instead, it’s the lyrics that feel difficult to pull out. He knows them – knows every syllable of them – but they catch in his throat and he runs through the intro to the song twice before he’s able to sing, quiet, barely audible, “ _Do you know the words that make the hidden door open? Can you speak my secret name and fix me…_ ”

The song is the shortest he’s written in years. Shorter than the rest of their tracks – missing drums, bass, and keys to fill the time – it’s over in under three minutes.

“Holy shit, Matt,” Danny says when he finishes.

“That’s gotta go on the record, dude,” Micro interjects. “Seriously – it’s. The perfect interlude. What the fuck, you wanted to bury that?”

“The kids are right,” Luke says. Both Micro and Danny squawk in protest, which Jessica silences with a scoff. “That’s good, Matt.”

Matt feels his stomach drop out. This isn’t a song for them. It’s a song about him; it’s the most selfish thing he’s ever written. Just his guitar and vainglorious need. The self-serving question of forgiveness.  “Don’t be stupid,” he says, shaking his head.

“They’re not,” Jessica says, firm. “It’s good. We want it on the record. You’ve been outvoted, dick.”

 

* * *

 

The concession is that they’ll record it when they’ve completely finished everything else. Micro’s the one that’s the most upset about the bargain they strike and Matt thinks they’re all paying for it, with the way Micro pushes them through the rest of their tracking process. 

No one else seems to notice or care when he brings it up, though. Not even when Micro announces, gleeful, that they’ve recorded their last take of the record.

“Except, of course, for the interlude,” Micro adds, peachy, after Danny’s _holy shit we did it!_ yelp has stopped ringing in their ears.

Danny is still, however, strung between Matt and Jessica, his weight bearing onto the arms he has slung around their shoulders. He smells like his Koolaid-flavored vape and Matt wants to gag. Jessica shoves Danny off her and he sways into Matt’s side.

“ _Maaaatt_ ,” Danny whines. “You promised. It was a pinky swear.”

Danny had made him do it.

Matt shrugs out from under Danny, sighing. “Fine – fine,” he says, raising his hands in defeat. He searches for the neck of Foggy’s old guitar, leaning against the arm of the sofa. The wood is worn and familiar, a deep scrape on the back of neck that neither Foggy nor Matt know the origin of.

He finds the stool Luke had been sitting on while they laid down the last bass-line of _Desert_ inside the booth, dragging it towards the mic where he’ll record the vocals. That was part of the agreement – he’d give them three takes, all live. Micro had agreed readily, saying something about the _vibe_ a live take would give off.

They use a different set of monitors for recording. These ones are large, over the ear and Matt has to take off his glasses to wear them – otherwise the arms dig painfully into his ears. He tucks his glasses into his pocket and pulls on the headphones before pulling his guitar back around his body.

Micro’s in his ear then, asking, “Can you just do a quick chord progression and vocals test?”

Matt obliges. When they’re good to go, he starts to play.

It’s late on a Thursday afternoon and he doesn’t think about how he should be leaving, should be going to church, to work in the food pantry, to, to – to _see Claire_.

The thought is selfish and stings, the past week rising up inside him like bile. He’d made such a mistake. He’d made _so many_ mistakes. He doesn’t feel like he deserves this: he doesn’t deserve the friends on the other side of the glass, bullying him into recording this song. He doesn’t deserve the chance to make this record. 

But he has the chance; he has the friends. So he plays, because letting them down would be a worse sin than this selfishness, he thinks.

Matt’s fingers slide over the strings of his guitar, the metal cool against the calloused pads of his fingers. He picks his way through the song, as carefully as picking his way through a crowd. He thinks about what he’s asking.

He starts the song again: “ _Do you know the words that make the hidden door open? Can you speak my secret name and fix me? I have no heart, I have no brain. Lord I have no courage, can you get me home again?_ ”

The sound doesn’t build. The tempo stays the same, meditative and careful. Yearning. Matt feels every ounce of it.

“ _Could never be heaven without you, could never be heaven without you_.” He repeats himself – doesn’t count how many times he does it. This is a litany. He waits until it feels right – like he’s done enough penance for now – before moving into the second verse.

It’s a simple song. Easy enough for Matt to play through into the second refrain, his hands so desperate, so hungry for whatever chance of absolution it offers him. He pulls in air and exhales lyrics, “ _And all of the songs were about you, and all of the songs were about you…_ ” Again and again and again, the chords changing as he pleads – keening.

He thinks of Corinthians as he sings his way through the end of the song, “ _You are not alone, we are not separate. My daughter’s shoulders are my shoulders; my son’s hands, my hands; my wife’s heart, my own heart._ ”

One body, many parts. He only hopes that tenuous, holy connection is enough to prove something. To determine forgiveness and worth and reward.

Before the song ends, he circles back to the first refrain. “ _Could never be heaven without you, never be heaven without you_.” And again, Matt finds himself repeating and laying back over the lyric, a meditative repetition until he feels a settling in his bones, a sign to stop.

He finishes the chord progression and exhales. “That’s it, Micro.”

“Yeah,” Micro echoes, sounding almost as if they were far away. “I think we have it, dude,” they add. “C’mon out.”

It’s not typical of Micro to be anything less than thorough. But Matt decides against questioning it. He’d rather they didn’t do take after take of the song anyway. Maybe it’s out of kindness to him. Maybe the song was actually terrible when they recorded it and they don’t want to hurt his feelings.

Matt pulls off the monitors, hooking them back over the mic, before un-slinging his guitar from around his shoulders and slipping off the stool. He walks back across the booth and pushes open the door.

Danny whistles when he steps out of the recording booth, but that’s not what tugs on all of Matt’s senses, not what drags his attention to one, fixed point in the studio. It’s the scent of lemongrass and mint, clean and herbal, bright.

“Claire,” he breathes. Something dislodges from deep in his chest and ping pongs through his limbs, rattling his bones.

“You were late,” she says. Her voice is thick with something Matt can’t name. She’s across the room, he can hear her bag knock against the wall. “Thought you were going to stand me up.”

The entire studio is silent. Matt’s stomach twists.

It’s Thursday, but – Matt had thought that Claire had made herself clear. They were done. All of it was over: their friendship and anything more than that between them. Done. So he’d stayed away and recorded a plea for her absolution.

And here she was.

Danny interjects into the stagnant air, “We should, uh, get some fo–”

“It’s okay,” Claire interrupts, dismissive. “Matt and I are going to go for a walk.” She pauses. “Meet you outside?” she adds, directed towards Matt.

He nods before he’s even aware of it. “Uh, yeah,” he says, leaning his guitar against the wall. He doesn’t actually care that it’s probably not a good place to abandon it, but he’s more concerned with grabbing his coat, scarf, and cane. Claire closes the door behind her, silencing the sound of her footsteps.

“I’ll catch up with you guys,” he says, shrugging into his jacket.

Jessica snorts, but before she can get out a snappy retort, Matt slips out the door.

Claire is just outside the front door to the building that houses Marvel’s recording studio, the sharp December wind tossing her scent towards him. He taps out and walks to meet her at the edge of the sidewalk.

“I brought you a coffee,” Claire says, sudden and far gentler than Matt expects.

He pauses, trying to – understand. Why? Why show up here, why take an acrimonious dig about _standing her up_ at church only to present him with a coffee? He doesn’t know what to _do_ with that. It doesn’t add up.

Matt is apparently quiet long enough for Claire to take his silence as an answer. (Again, he notes in frustration.) “Right,” she sighs. “Forgot you like to punish yourself.” Matt can hear the plastic bend, then the sound of liquid splashing into the street. She’s dumped the coffee.

“Well, the joke's on you 'cause ER coffee really sucks,” she adds.

It’s finally enough to surprise him to speak. “ER?” Matt echoes. “You okay?”

“Fine,” she replies. “Had to take someone in before I came over.”

“So you didn’t… go to church then?” he asks.

“Nope,” Claire hums. If he listens hard enough, under the sounds of the city he can hear her breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth. The soft sound of fabric pressing together – Claire crossing her arms, he thinks. “Figured you’d be hiding out.”

Matt huffs in reply, shifts his weight. He leans his cane a little to the left, then back upright, bearing his weight forward as he fidgets.

“You gonna explain to me what all that was?” she demands – not _angry_ , not entirely. There’s anger in her tone, yes, but it’s leveled out by a caustic wariness.

“All what?” Matt frowns.

“Oh, enough with the hair shirt already, Matt,” Claire sighs. She pauses. The toe of her clog scrapes against the concrete. (She wears nurses’ shoes – handmade, expensive ones that she complains about having to replace every few years. Matt’s been trying to figure out how to slip her a gift card for a new pair for three years.)

Matt sighs, guilt nearly cleaving his chest in two. “What do you expect from me, Claire?” he finally demands, desperate. “I’m flailing here.”    

“Stopping with the ‘loneliest boy in New York’ shtick would be a good start,” Claire mutters, annoyed. She sighs, shifting again. The breeze pulls her scent towards him and Matt inhales deeply despite himself. “You’re acting like you’re a ship lost at sea,” she starts again, softer. “But you’re _not_. You have anchors, you have _people_. All you had to do was just say _something,_ Matt.”

“Claire, what –” Matt sighs, pain in his chest. He loves her, he loves her and he doesn’t know what to do with that. Because he still feels like he’s _lost_ her. He loses everyone he loves. They all leave.

Except. He lost Claire, but she didn’t leave. He doesn’t know what that means.

Matt sucks in a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on – or a full-on meltdown like he hasn’t had since college. Neither option is ideal. “No matter what I do, I’m just –” Matt sighs and lowers his hand from his face, setting it on his hip, defeated. “I’m making things worse. _God_. I should have stopped this.”

“Stopped what?”

“ _This_ ,” he says, not answering Claire’s question in the slightest. He jerks his hand between them. “What I did,” Matt clarifies, prying the words from his dry throat. “With Elektra. All of it.”

Claire inhales, barely audible. She’s quiet for a moment, before speaking again. “You know you kind of did, right?” Just as Matt starts to pull a face, she continues, “Pretty late in the game, sure. But you did, didn’t you?”

Matt doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that – to _any_ of this. But Claire isn’t finished. She takes another breath and says, “I know you were with her. The night I called.”

He doesn’t have to ask her which night. He doesn’t even have to ask her how she knew – she was with Jessica. He wraps both hands around the grip of his cane to keep from touching the scar on his scalp, hidden under his hairline now but – he knows it’s there. 

“I heard most of your song, by the way,” she says, finally, adding, “It wasn’t bad.”

“It was –” Matt cuts himself off. “I’m sorry, Claire.”

Some of the wrenching weight in his chest eases. A fractional amount, but his lungs expand a little easier.

Claire sighs. Takes one step. An inch closer. “I know, Matt,” she whispers, only for him. Her hand spreads over his clenched knuckles on his cane. The touch almost brings him to his knees. Warm skin, no gloves. He knows from experience her own knuckles are probably chapped. He wants to wrap her hands up in his own, protect them from the cold.

The urge is staggering.

“I –” Claire stops herself. Matt wants to lean in, to ask her to finish the sentence, tell him what she’s thinking because he can’t see her face, doesn’t know if she looks sad or mad or happy, or, or, or  –

All he knows is that she’s still touching him, and he’s trying to put faith in that.

“I love you, you know,” Matt breathes. The words just slip out, into the quiet between them. It should feel like a landslide, the way it makes Matt’s chest suddenly weightless. He’s almost dizzy. He’s _said it_. He loves Claire and he said it and he’s asking for forgiveness, because he’s said he’s sorry out loud and she’s heard him play and –

“I love you, Claire. I – ” She’s silent. The weightlessness is short-lived, Matt’s bones locking together. “Please say something back,” he whispers. “Anything.” 

“Yeah?” Claire replies, barely audible. Her hand moves from his and Matt nearly bolts, nearly runs away because – of course. Of course. This isn’t some sort of _novel_. She’s not going to –

Her hand returns, this time tugging on his jacket, straightening it out, palm around the open teeth of the zipper against his chest. “I said I wasn’t going to let myself fall in love with you,” she murmurs. But her tone is –

Matt recognizes it.

It’s light, gentle. The kind of warm tone she takes when they’re sitting across from each other at the card table in the basement kitchen of their church, two cups of coffee beside them, her ankle knocking against his as she teases him about elderly Mrs. Blake flirting with him after mass.

Matt feels a dangerous flicker in his chest. It tugs on the corners of his mouth.

“I’m kind of hoping you lied about that,” he replies. Hope beats furiously against his ribs.

“Hm.” Claire’s hum is full – affectionate. Her hand is still curled in the lapel of his jacket, but her thumb swipes over his chest. Once. Twice. “Should I have?”

“Yes,” Matt breathes, instant. He means it. There’s a pause, when he realizes just how much he does, so he adds, “Please.” For good measure.

“Good boy,” Claire murmurs. Matt doesn’t have to touch her face to know she’s smiling. Sly, careful. But smiling. She opens her palm against his chest. ( _Can you feel it now, Claire? The way you make my heart race_? Matt doesn’t want to know the answer.)

Claire slides her hand down his sternum, smoothing out his jacket once more. “Buy me dinner?” she asks, full of heat. “I think you owe me.”

 

* * *

 

Her apartment smells like plants. There’s the lemongrass, the mint in the window in her kitchen. But there’s basil too, and thyme, and rosemary. Bergamot in her bedroom, because she says it gets the most sun.

Matt can feel it, the sun, beating down on his chest. It’s morning and Claire’s sheets are soft cotton, tangled around his legs. There’s no alarm to wake him, only the soft sound of a shower running, just a few yards away.

He reaches out across the bed, knowing it’ll be empty. Still warm, though. She hasn’t been gone long. Matt allows himself to take comfort in that. The dregs of sleep still cloud his head, and he doesn’t try to make it to the bathroom even though he can tell the door’s been left open, from the way the heat of it is starting to sink into Claire’s small bedroom. The air tastes like steam – almost damp, humid.

Matt’s fingers curl in the depression on the mattress, the place where the sheets are rucked up from Claire shifting in her sleep. The give of the bed almost pulls him towards her spot, worn down by familiarity with Claire’s body. His fingers chase the last vestiges of her body heat.

He doesn’t allow himself to roll over onto his stomach and press his face into the space where she used to be. Barely.

The water switches off, followed by the metallic sound of the shower rings being dragged against the bar. Water drips from a faucet. Two soft, wet footfalls. A towel moving against skin. Rustle of linen.

Footsteps – faint on wood floorboards.

“How long’ve you been awake?” Claire murmurs. Her voice is still thick with sleep – a further sign she hasn’t been up long either. That, and the fact that Matt can’t hear or smell coffee brewing in the kitchen.

“Not very,” Matt replies, equally quiet, turning his head towards the sound of her. She sits on the edge of the bed, mattress bowing to her weight. She smells clean.

Claire’s hand pushes through his hair and Matt leans up into it, cat-like. “You look good like this, you know,” she says, mirthful.

Matt snorts. “Naked in your bed?”

Claire huffs a laugh. “Sleepy,” she corrects. “But that too.”

He feels light, despite the sleepiness that’s trying desperately to cling to him. It’s in his hands, wanting to reach for Claire and pull her back down to bed. He’s missed her so much and their dinner had ended in her bed, after Matt had treated Claire to the classiest kebab cart they could find near Marvel’s studio.

This is what _happy_ feels like; he remembers it from before. It feels like a tightness in his cheekbones from smiling too much. It feels like a yearning in his bones. It feels like sunlight on his skin, despite the chill that’s just barely breaking through Claire’s shitty apartment windows. (She’d had to warn him from tripping over the plants in the kitchen when she fixed them drinks, moved away from their usual spot to spare them from the cold until Claire could seal her windows with plastic.)

It feels like Claire’s hand trailing down from his hair to his jaw.

Matt pushes himself up on his elbows, stretching up to meet Claire’s mouth. Her hand guides him to her. She tastes like toothpaste – she must have brushed before he’d woken up. It’s sharp, spearmint on his tongue.

He almost feels bad about his morning breath, but he’s pretty sure if anything he tastes like her cunt and, well. Matt’s smug enough to take pride in that.

“You should come back to bed,” he murmurs when their kiss breaks. He doesn’t stray far from her, keeps his forehead pressed to her own. Her thumb strokes the underside of his jaw.

“What if I have work?” Claire asks. Matt can feel her cheeks turn up in a smile against his.

“I’d say take a sick day,” Matt returns, chuckling softly. “But I know you don’t have work this morning. Third Friday.” She always has the third Friday of the month off from her day job. He knows her.

Claire snorts, shakes her head. Matt moves with her, chasing her mouth with his own. He presses a quick kiss to the corner of her lips. “I’m right,” he adds, still laughing.

“Yeah, well not all of us are self-employed musicians,” Claire retorts.

“Hey,” Matt says, laughing a little louder now. “Not all the time. Let me take advantage.”

“You think you deserve it?” Claire teases, a low murmur. Her free hand trails down his stomach. He’s sure it’s meant to be a sly jab, playful. That’s what logic says, if he were to add together her tone, her smile, and the way she’s not just teasing him with her words, but with her fingers smoothing over the hair at the base of his navel. But Matt’s body locks regardless, panicked just for a hyper-second.

It’s just enough time for Claire to notice.

“Matt?” she asks, quiet. “You with me?”

He forces himself to nod, swallowing the dryness in his throat like an aspirin. “Yeah,” he breathes.

“Sure about that?” Her voice is louder now. She sounds unconvinced.

Matt doesn’t reply – doesn’t know how. Because… does he? Has he earned this absolution? He’s apologized, yes. He’s asked for forgiveness, but. Forgiveness and absolution might not be the same thing. He hasn’t paid nearly enough penance. It shouldn’t be this easy.

“Sit up,” Claire says suddenly, pushing a little at his hips.

He obliges and Claire’s hands slip from his face and his waist. Matt’s heart rate spikes, unsure of what she’s doing, what Claire means.

The bed shifts and creaks and Matt can feel her moving around. “Claire –” he starts.

She straddles his waist, her sheets the only barrier between them. Despite himself, Matt can feel a push of heat move down his spine. He’s only human and he’s hopelessly in love with her. It’s why there’s anxiety wrapped around his heart like a wire.

“Claire,” he repeats.

“Give me your hand,” she says, gentle. He does. She guides it up, over her right breast. Her skin is warm, warm, _warm_. “Feel my heart, Matt. What’s it telling you?”

“Claire –”

“C’mon,” she encourages. “Just. Tell me what you feel.”

So he does. Her heartbeat is strong, pushing against her chest (which rises and falls with the steady sound of her breathing). It beats just too fast, though. And Matt tilts his head, frowns a little. “Your heart’s beating fast,” he whispers. Waits some more, counting silently to himself. “Not irregular. Just – fast.”

“Yep,” Claire says. Her hair tickles his knuckles as she nods. “Do you know about heart rhythms?”

Matt furrows his brow, confused by the line of questioning. He answers regardless. “Irregular heart rates on a polygraph indicates lying,” he offers. “Ideal resting heart rate is 60 to 100 beats per minute.”

“All true,” Claire confirms. Her thumb massages Matt’s wrist, slow. “How’s my heart compared to those facts?”

Matt pauses. “Not lying,” he offers, careful and unsure.

“Definitely not,” she says. Her voice is – _fond_. “Sometimes,” Claire continues, “we’ll pick someone up and their wife, husband, whatever, will be with them. Their heart beat will spike when they look at them. It’s normal, but it’s something we have to watch out for, weigh against their other symptoms.”

“You wanted to know if I’d lied, right?” Her voice is softer now. “About falling in love with you?”

Something cracks open inside Matt. He can’t breathe. It’s a different kind of feeling than the panic he’d felt a moment ago. This time it’s because he feels every hollow filling with something thick and warm, like honey.

Her heartbeat is strong under his fingers, pulse jumping against her skin. Steady, but swift – as if beating in double-time. His own heart’s a mirror of hers.

“So,” Claire exhales. One syllable, but he knows her. He’s loved her for years. He knows every incline of her voice, every pitch and timbre. Matt knows she’s smiling when she asks, “What’s my heart tell you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! follow along for the epilogue, we'll chat there :)


	11. epilogue

 

The Defenders’ _Decalogue_ deals in both dread and hits  
Karen Page, for Noisey/Vice

It’s a cold night in December and The Defenders are about to play their last show of 2017. Next month, they’ll be celebrating their first birthday as a band by releasing their first record _Decalogue_. But that’s the future. Right now, The Defenders are unloading their van outside their home base – The Chaste. The bar’s well-known to Hell’s Kitchen locals as the best place to get a drink and see up and coming bands in a fun, intimate setting with great sound. It’s also, coincidentally, where The Defenders was born.

“Danny’s a stalker,” says drummer Jessica Jones, when asked about the band’s origin story. “We’re working on house-training him. It’s a slow process.”

As it would turn out, the band’s beginnings come from Harlem -- which is home to both bassist Luke Cage and Danny Rand, who plays synth and keys. Rand overheard Cage and Jones playing because Rand lives in the apartment above Cage.

“He thought I was the bassist,” Jones adds. “I mostly accepted his invitation so I could make him feel like shit for making assumptions.”

Jones is five-foot-two on a good day. Cage clears six feet and has been answering questions between unloading his own gear and carrying Jones’s drumkit like it weighs nothing. “People do it a lot,” he offers. “We like to set ‘em straight.”

But the band was missing one essential element, who would join the band two weeks later after an open call seeking guitarists.

When asked about joining The Defenders, guitarist and vocalist Matt Murdock is sheepish: “A friend of mine said it would be a good way to get me out more.”

The band has since spent the year playing shows in Hell’s Kitchen and elsewhere. [ They toured this summer with Leatherneck ](http://sonnywortzik.tumblr.com/post/165166686853/they-open-with-a-newer-song-the-one-dannys-been). According to Rand – who is easily the most vocal member, willing to pontificate for hours about the band, life, chi, and the future – the short tour taught them more than the seven months before it had.

“Not just getting along with each other – because, you know, Jessica and Luke are together and Jess and Matt are roommates, so we get along pretty well – but Leatherneck’s just got an incredible work ethic. It’s an honor to be taken under their wing.” Rand is extremely serious when he talks; he barely blinks and doesn’t gesticulate much. It’s at odds with his youthful appearance and reputation as the band’s resident stoner.

Their set is triumphant and energetic. It’s both The Defenders’ last show of the year and their first since finishing their debut album at Marvel’s studio in Brooklyn.

Even Murdock – who has grown notoriously famous for being a quiet, intense frontman prone to rare outbursts of Latin on stage – seems to be having a good time, telling the crowd to “have fun with this one” before abdicating the mic. The Defenders are joined on stage by two of Leatherneck’s quartet, guitarist Rachel Cole-Alves and vocalist Frank Castle. They end their set with a cover of My Chemical Romance’s “Thank You For The Venom”, with Castle and Murdock dueling out the vocals.

It nearly brings the house down.

After their set, Murdock is the one to track me down – he thanks me for coming and slips me a press copy of _Decalogue_.

The influence of bands like My Chemical Romance on The Defenders seeps through every pore of _Decalogue_ . The record opens with Murdock’s voice, nearly swallowed by static, debating good and evil: ”I’ve been preoccupied of late, with questions of morality…” It’s a fitting introduction for The Defenders’ debut, which wrestles with the weighty concepts of morality and God, life and death. _Decalogue_ is unsettling, full of dissonance created by layering synth with live instruments. It toes the line between beautiful and distressing.

Murdock, the band’s lyricist, lays himself out on the album’s cross. Ten minutes in, he’s screaming, “I’m just a manic depressive,” on the album’s second track “Can’t Get It Out”. _Decalogue_ takes us deep inside Murdock’s conversations with himself and with his band members. A standout moment on the album is the final verse of “Same Logic/Teeth”, where Murdock’s vocals drop out, and are replaced by the rest of the band’s harmonizing as they chastise him: “Boy, we gave you every opportunity. Boy, we gave our hands, to get you off your knees. Boy, sat at our table and ate everything.”

There is a permeating, oppressive sense of dread that befits an album written in 2017. On “137”, a five-minute long track on nuclear war, The Defenders pull their own Dr. Strangelove and “learn to love the bomb”. Meanwhile, on “No Control”, Murdock assures us that “some don’t get cured” and references the story of Lot’s wife.

Murdock’s lyrics are compounded and enforced with the sheer sonic weight _Decalogue_ bears down on the listener. Cage’s bass brings in just enough jazz and funk to counterbalance Murdock’s grim lyrics, standing out on “Same Logic/Teeth”. Jones’ drums punctuate every sigh, every mournful note, and every howl. She cements herself in the Valhalla of female drummers on “451”, a perfect counterpoint to the Jack White-style guitar and bass brought in by Murdock and Cage. Rand’s use of synthesizers and keys creates a desolate soundscape for The Defenders, tailor-made for Murdock’s lyrics on tracks like “Lit Me Up” and “137”.

But it’s not just existential dread that _Decalogue_ deals in spades. It’s also a meditation on trauma and abuse and the bleakness that comes in their wake. “Maybe one day,” Murdock croons on “Waste”, “you'll find your way to climb on up out of your grave with the bits of you, you managed to save.” Even the album’s liner notes wrestle with Murdock’s devils. “How are you holding up?” the final couplet asks, then answers, “like a good Catholic boy.”

And yet, there’s beauty in _Decalogue_ , amidst its melancholy. The album features two interludes by Murdock: one holds its own as “Could Never Be Heaven” (the shortest song on the record) and the other is tacked onto the closing measures of “Out of Mana”.

“I want to say I'm in love with you and I'm more than the skin of my teeth,” he promises to his nameless lover before the last third of the album. _Decalogue_ is not a hopeless record. There’s a yearning for forgiveness laced into the tracks. The album ends with an 8 minute-plus ballad entitled “Batter Up”, and while Murdock assures us that “it’s never going to stop”, he still asks for our best shot.

The Defenders take us along for a metamorphosis in _Decalogue_. “Lose whoever you once were,” Murdock tells us. “Died and returned to the earth, found ourselves back in love.” There has been a transformation.

I can’t wait to see what The Defenders become.

 

8.9/10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, you guys. i can't believe this fic's over and part one of mic verse is complete.
> 
> this fic would be absolutely nothing without an essential team of folks: pam, who heard the original idea and helped me figure out how to get jess sober. abbey, who has been gabe saporta levels of important – extremely new jersey and overwhelming in support. sam, for being my person and my first beta reader always. and of course, sadie, without whom mic verse would be absolutely nothing. i could hurgle on the praises of sadie, but i'll leave it with this: [bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JfbUTsaXWiQ).
> 
> and of course, all of you have been incredible. i'm so thankful for each comment, kudos, tumblr inbox, subscription, reblog, tweet, rec – all of it. y'all are rockstars.
> 
> there's going to be a bit of a "break" on the publishing side of things, just for a few weeks while sadie and i start to play narrative legos with the frank and karen fic that's coming next. we'll definitely be around on tumblr – i've got a bunch of silly social media edits to post. you can check out my [mic verse tag](http://academicpunk.tumblr.com/tagged/mic-verse) for more. also keep your eyes peeled for a forthcoming ~MIC VERSE COMPENDIUM~ featuring my ramblings about lyrical choices and reference guides to hold the mic and the forthcoming fics. (there is… a lot of effort on both mine and sadie's to make the text as layered and meta textual as possible because. uh? we are very fun people?)
> 
> thank you from the bottom of my tiny gay heart.


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